Sleep comes late to my eyes
most nights if at all. Sometimes in
the quietness of the dark between
the sounds of my child’s breath
a voice asks me “Do you remember
the last time you were lovingly touched ?”
I choke back tears and say “Yes”
She asks me “When was that ?”
“Seven years ago and that was late”
“What about since ?” she asks again
“Never since” I say, the heart heaving
with pain. “Never since” I repeat.
The years pass me by. She says “Yes”
like she hears me. “Do you miss that
loving touch ?” she asks
“So much that I mistake it for life” I say
I want her to tell me I will
Live and be loved again. She fades
away like night melting to dawn.
I hear my child breathing and birdsong
These are signs of life I tell myself.
I hear her whisper one last time
“Pray to life for love to return”
I never fail to remind J that there is a time and place for everything. It is possibly the line she will remember me by when I am dead and gone given how frequently she hears it. Instead of having her breakfast she will break into a song and dance number from High School Musical well past eight on Monday morning. She will insist that I watch and applaud the performance instead of screaming at her to finish her milk and cereal. Her sense of occasion is seriously lacking but then so is mine. Consider for example, a person walks into the grocery store with the express purpose of buying detergent because they are fresh out of it and laundry is only half way done. However instead of heading straight for detergent, they wander over to the natural foods aisle and go berserk upon finding goat milk on sale for a dollar a gallon. They at once proceed to stock pile so they can turn it to huge quantities home-made feta cheese. That person would be me. It would not concern me in the least that I ha...
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