To Moms. Sweet ones.

I lie down beside her.
And my neck is entwined, like vines, by two plump little arms.

At first, her breathing is intense, echoing the day’s adventures, then gradually slows.

And I feel her drift off to sleep.

Her little hands, holding my neck, relax.

I am “set free.” Yet I don’t want to go anywhere.

For a moment, it feels like I have no tasks.

As if everything that was so important until now has vanished into the darkness of the room.

I lie in silence and listen. To her breathing.

Slow. Deep.

I stroke her hair, tangled across the pillow that has already warmed from her body.

I try to make out the little face she’s set for sleep.

If usually two round eyes look out at the world—sparkling with curiosity—now they’re hidden beneath the curtain of dark lashes.

She rests.
Like actors at the end of a performance, before the next play, which will begin at dawn.

I notice her tiny hand, neatly tucked beneath her plump cheek.

Those little fingers, so active during the day, now only twitch occasionally.

Perhaps tickled by a dream?

She smiles in her sleep.

I remember how she did this as a baby.

And even now—a small rainbow of a smile spreads across her little face.
“Maybe it’s a sign she’s found a dream she likes?” I think.

Perhaps sensing my gaze, she quickly rolls onto her other side.

And, chirping softly, she drifts into the cinema of dreams.

I lie there a few more minutes.

A rainbow unfolds across her face…

Surely… only mothers can see so much romance and magic, almost like goodness stepping right off the pages of a fairy tale, in the simple act of a child falling asleep.

Goodnight,
V.