I’m being as quiet as I can. The children are asleep in the next room and I don’t want to wake them. I thought of going to the office for a while, getting back before they wake up, but that’s hard to do; even when they’re asleep I want to be near them. The time together is so brief: one week each month. I keep thinking this will get easier. It does, in a way. We get used to everything.
I listen to their breathing, study their small bodies curved with sleep’s signature — Mara with one arm over her head, extravagantly trusting; Sara curled up like a flower that closes at night. Already, Sara doesn’t remember her dreams, or chooses not to tell them. I cover them with the sheet, smooth their hair, moving over them like a dream.
