Night Owl
A mother lays dreaming, pleasant and warm, until suddenly the images in her mind stop, as if a curtain fell in the middle of a play, leaving its enraptured audience confused and grasping for a resolution to the unfolding plot, replaced instead by darkness. Silence.
And a feeling.
A feeling she was quite familiar with. One that had visited her on more than one previous occasion since her initiation into the world of parenthood.
Her sixth sense, she liked to call it. A feeling, she assumed, that was akin to when Ms. Clavel (of the classic children’s book series ‘Madeline’) shot up in her bed in the middle of the night, pointing knowingly to the ceiling and declaring “something is not right.”
And yet, nothing. Just blackness and the gentle rhythmic breathing of a sixth-senseless man still enjoying the entertaining progression of his dreamy drama beside her.
Go back to sleep she tells herself, her eyes forced shut in a feeble attempt at an activity she already knows will end in vain.
She lays, eyes closed but ears straining for the slightest sound that would confirm her suspicion, much as a deer stands stark still in a forest, it’s ears twitching in expectation of a snapped twig or falling leaf.
Then, a tiny noise – barely noticeable yet subtly disruptive to the otherwise deafening quiet of the night. It’s the rustle of a tiny being turning beneath the embracing weight of its blankets in a far off room.
Ah, thinks the mother. Here it comes.
A minute passes. Another almost-indetectable ruffle of fabric against skin.
The mother, too, rolls beneath her own sheets, adjusting the pillows and nudging the sleeping bear beside her who retreats to the far side of the nest with a groan.
It begins.
Thump. Two little feet simultaneously hitting the wooden floors. Thump thump. Two little feet cautiously traipsing into the abyss of darkness. Thump thump thump thump thump. Two little feet quickly padding across the cold floors, their accompanying thump thumps growing steadily louder as they approach from the other room, the hall, the doorway.
Come, little one. Mommy has been expecting you.
The mother pulls the warm body with its matted hair and thumping feet into the prepared sanctuary of the shared bed. She plants a kiss on the head of disheveled curls and the baby nestles into her side, closing its eyes and smacking its lips in a sigh of contented exhaustion and complete comfort.
The mother, too, shuts her eyes and curves the corners of her tired mouth into a tiny smile, silently thanking her intuition for another job well done. The heat and love of the child next to her radiates into her skin, her heart, her being.
She sleeps.
-Bailee
