Silence fills the house. Even the corners.
It's time for bed and Zay is sleepy.
His hand is wrapped in mine, small and warm, the perfect fit. We walk that way, connected, toward the stairs.
I look down at my son, blond head tousled even before sleep. Jammies passed down from more than one brother. Mine-O-Mine pooled on the floor.
And I'm compelled to lift him. While he still fits in the cradle of my arms.
He wraps around me. Arms gently loop my neck. Heart presses easy into mine. His head nuzzles my shoulder,
and we are at peace.
We dance that way for a moment. Soft and slow. My son and me. While the house is still. While dark presses in like fog.
To music only we can hear.
And I'm grateful. For the scent of childhood. For sweet, even breath. For the warmth of love and touch and joy and peace.
Thank you, Lord, for the dance.