The night awakes us long before the sun.
A child whimpers in the lonely chill, hoping for strength to break the silence. His father rises, answering the boy’s confusion, carrying the little one to the bed of his parents, the son’s closest conduits of life and warmth and comfort and joy.
Human limbs toss and turn and touch in the darkness. An hour passes, then two. The babe is long again asleep and back in his bed while the union dwells in conversation, better held with ample rest, but only possible when the souls come out.
I look out the window.
“I think I’m almost brave enough to go use the bathroom. I can see the light now. The light makes me brave.”
I’ve been putting this off since 3 AM.
“Alright, well when you get back, I’ll get up and go shower. ” We can’t leave the kids. I like the way he thinks.
I think for a minute before I speak.
“Wanna walk down there with me? They’ll be okay in here for a few minutes.” The boys’ and girls’ bathrooms are right next to each other.
I’m not sure if this is bravery or fear still talking.
He looks over at me. He’s not sure either.
But I can see by the dawn’s early light–he smiles. I think that means he’s forgiven me now.
“Would that make you feel better?”, he asks. I know it’s not about the feelings, but sometimes it is.
Right now it is. I answer his question with a bulls eye clarity and one hundred percent certainty:
I smile back.
I think–it feels like–
I’ve forgiven him too.