The Ache

I lie awake at night staring up at a blackened white ceiling as two little girls press their bodies to mine, one on each side.

I attempt to push them away – roll them over or lift them to the far side of the bed. They return within moments as if sleepily drawn back into my gravitational orbit.

My body aches, begging to shift positions, to stretch, to sprawl, but I remain in the ache. Still. Quiet.

Just a few more minutes I assure myself. Just a few more minutes and then I’ll disturb their dreams again.

I don’t.

They breathe their warm rhythmic breath into my neck, one head resting on each of my shoulders. A leg draped across my stomach, another over my thigh. A hand resting on my chest, another wrapped around my fingers.

My body aches but my heart soars. Something in those little bodies seeps through skin and muscle and bone, circulating like regenerative light through the blood of both generations as we lie tangled together in the dark.

A little stirring from one of the little girls. “I love you, Mommy.”

Then she retreats, peeling her body from mine and positioning it away on her own pillow.

I feel the loss. The warmth replaced by chill. The weight replaced by insubstantiality.

My body aches no longer. I can move more freely again. But my heart reaches out for the light source taken with it by the child, grounding itself back into my chest, back into the bed.

Soon enough there won’t be any more tangled bodies. No more blood light. No more whispered “I love you, Mommy”s.

I lie awake at night staring up at a blackened white ceiling as one little girl presses her body to mine on one side.

I miss the ache already.