The most tender moments arrive just before you drift off to sleep.
Your mom and I take turns each night, lying beside you until your breathing deepens and it’s safe to slip away.
Sometimes, just as I’m planning my escape, you say something completely unexpected.
You reveal a fear of being blown away by the wind.
You announce that you have bones in your body—news delivered with awe and unease.
(We’d visited a cemetery that day. I wondered if this was your first brush with the idea of mortality.)
Other nights, you simply ask to hold my hand.
As if we’re entering your dreams together.
Once, you whispered, “Dad, you’re the best dad,”
just as I was feeling the opposite.
And as I gently wrestle my fingers from your softening grip, I think—
maybe children are more forgiving of us than we are of ourselves.
Maybe the comfort of a hand held at night carries more weight than we realize.
So I stay a few minutes longer.
Leave a Reply