Empty hours

It's 3am and I'm wide awake. Rich has a cold so he's tossing and turning and frowning in his sleep. So I'm curled up with Ian and studying every part of him while he sleeps. It reminds me of nights when Rich and I had our relationship stretched across 85 miles of highway. It was one of the last times I've felt such a strong urge to stop the clock. Rich and I used to talk about wanting "empty hours" where we didn't have a countdown until our next separation.

And now, in the middle of the night, I'm pining for empty hours again. I lie here on our flannel sheet protector covered in drool and sweat telling myself to pay attention to our perfect son. Remember what he smells like. Trace the curve of his shoulder and remember how soft his skin is. Listen to every breath and murmur as if they held a secret message.

Ian is sleeping with his belly pressed up against mine, his little legs tangled in mine, his fist tucked under his chin. Rich is quietly snoring behind me. The house is quiet. There's a kitty at the foot of the bed.

This is what forever should feel like. Even if I only can have a few more hours of it tonight.