Darkness

This was originally posted on Literary Traces, a writer's collective.



I clicked off the lamp and snuggled in. Her tiny arms reached out for me as she looked up at the ceiling.

"Look, mommy, the moon is only half. Looks like a boat."

We were gazing at her nightlight that splayed the night sky across the bedroom ceiling. The green light reflected in her blue eyes.

"Yes, it does look like a boat! Or a smile. You are super smart."

I could feel her smile while she snuggled in closer. I reached over and stroked her small face. She is so big yet still so little. How did the time go so fast. She reached up and touched my face.

"I doing the same thing to you, mommy. I love you."

I held her closer and soaked in her scent. Toothpaste, soap, shampoo, and a healthy dose of little kid. It was intoxicating. What is it about the smell of your child's head? Would she ever outgrow that smell, like she had so many other things.

She sighed and rolled over. In the darkness I could see her eyes were heavy, she struggled to keep them open. I smiled at her determination to stay away until daddy could come in and take over, appreciating our shared stubbornness.

It was this stubbornness, in part, that led to our delayed weening. I refused to push her, she refused to stop. We were both ok with it. She would go a few days without asking for milk, I would never offer nor refuse. She weened herself, gradually. Just like learning language, I cannot pinpoint the exact moment she was verbal. I don't even know if she is completely weened. I may not know for months.

Tonight, in this darkness, she is finding comfort in my presence. In my arms and my voice instead of at the breast. She has outgrown another part of her babyhood. I lean in and breath her in again.

"I love you mommy."

"I love you, peanut. Forever."