Hearing you scuffle with your sheets, with some germ, with all that irritation finding you in night’s rest, it’s unsettling and stilling to pick you up and hold you in my arms and sit with the length of you, cradling, eyes closing, breath breathing, finally resting.

I was hoping that you would sleep, that you wouldn’t wake frustrated because of last night’s deprivation, that you would be your normal bubbly self, the self that yaps and taps til I roll over, awake and not, ready to comb your hair, finalize your clothes, locate your socks, say no when asked to play.

And it was you, wavering over me with all that light piercing the curtains, persisting to reintroduce yourself as the playful one, telling me to do this or that, and waiting until I moved to act.

It was you and you had slept well.