Monday, February 15, 2010
When he stirs in his sleep, Abe reaches for me with both hands, as if to say, “I need you so much closer.” Whether I am a foot away or lying nose to nose, he reaches. In the middle of the night, he buries his face in my arm, curls into my chest. I nudge him away to make sure he can breathe, but he scoots his way back. And why shouldn’t he? For most of his life, we were so much closer. He didn’t have to turn to reach me. How unfair of me to change the rules and demand less than full body contact. At night is when he misses it most. So we sleep, his head on my chest, my knees curled under him, his leg on my leg. And because I miss it too, I press my face against his. Hold his hand in mine. As we breathe each other's breaths.