density

Climbing under covers still warm with the heat of the evening’s setting sun, and into a seasoned sleep routine focused on, well, sleep, I close my eyes and lie stiffly until sure the Sandman won’t be interrupted by the sound of a baby crying, by the sniff of a puppy yet to pee, by the thirst of a body that’s forgotten to drink. With none of these to call me up, I settle into the dusk ever more smoothly, with eyes still closed, and a mind inspecting its nighttime map, choosing its travel to Dreamland.

To tired to cross the bed to kiss the person next to me, my husband, after realizing this had been ignored, I instead recall the moment of newness, the lightness, of a goodnight kiss that in the early days took my breath away each and every night, that made my heart beat outside my body, next to my skin, every inch of it, as though that kiss were all I needed to live, the oxygen of his life breathing into mine. A pang of sadness convinces me to roll over, press my lips briefly to his, feel better, but still long for the lightness of unfamiliarity that made me addicted to him in the first place.

Ahh, the lightness…

the lightness…

the lightness…

Eyes still closed, heart full (if a bit heavy), I let him stroke my arm in the darkness, singing me to sleep, shoulder to elbow…elbow to shoulder.

And back again…

back again…

back again…

“Have you been drinking orange juice lately?” he asks, stopping on my shoulder blade, hand throwing an echo through my skin to the bone, the pulse measuring density, thinking about the future, concerned for loss, for weakening.

“Sometimes.”

“Because I buy the kind with calcium just for you, you know.”

“I know.”

Eyes still closed, I smile into sleep.

Ahh, the density…

the density…

The Density.