Every night here, in the swirling darkness of just before dreams, we curl together. His small soft cheek pressed against my heart, song rising up like an offering into the velvet of night. Here, every night, we reclaim each other from the day, his small fingers exploring my face, my arms wrapped tightly around his small bundle of limbs, always growing, now heavy with almost-sleep. Every night in the rocking chair, holding each other close, song is the mortar that connects us, making tesserae of our separate days whole.
