A moment
It’s afternoon and I’ve woken before her. It’s a Sunday nap, the sort where we try to soak up sleep like we’re afraid the FDA will pull the license soon. Sunlight angles through the room, painting the wall across from us. Curled against the warmth of her body, I watch the light shift and ripple, filtered through the tree limbs outside, and it’s almost as if we are under water. It’s terribly quiet, inside and out. I wonder for a moment if everyone is taking a nap, if I’m the only one awake in the land of sleep. My right shoulder aches a little from holding it above my head and laying on my side, but I don’t want to move, to take the chance of waking her, or more importantly, of moving away from this spot so close to her. My left hand rests upon her hip, and I watch the light moving across the wall for a while. I know it will cross the floor, slide up the corner of the mattress, and shine across us. While I’m waiting for this, I listen to her breathe. It sounds like peace.