Sometimes, when the house goes quiet and the kettle’s been turned off and the floorboards stop their creaking, I go stand at your door.
I don’t always open it. Just lean there, fingers wrapped around a chipped mug, letting the warmth of it keep me in the now while you drift somewhere else.
Tonight, I did open it.
The nightlight throws a soft golden shape across the carpet. You’re curled on your side, hand tucked beneath your cheek, your mouth the smallest bit open. The blanket has slipped to your waist, and your toes stick out like curious little explorers.
Your brow lifts slightly—like you’re listening. You’ve gone somewhere, I can tell. Your eyes twitch beneath their lids, and your fingers make a small movement, as if you’re brushing past something only you can see.
I wonder where you are tonight.
I like to think it’s somewhere good. A place made of soft hills and quiet birds, where trees grow upside down, and rabbits wear boots. Maybe there’s a river that hums lullabies and clouds that carry libraries on their backs. Maybe you’ve found a friend there—a fox with a lantern or a girl made of starlight—and the two of you are walking without shoes through grass that hums.
I like to think that wherever it is, it makes sense to you.
Sometimes, I forget that your mind is already full of rooms I’ve never stepped into. You’re building whole worlds behind your eyes while I stand here in the doorway, watching your foot twitch under the blanket.
The tea has gone cold in my hands. I didn’t notice.
You shift. Exhale. Go still again.
I pull the blanket gently up over your legs. My hand pauses for a moment on your back. Warm. Steady.
Then I tiptoe out, pulling the door mostly closed. Not all the way. Just enough to keep the world out and the dream in.
And down the hall, I sit with the cold tea and think:
Stay there a while, love. Stay as long as you like.
The CJBuzz 