the threads in her head

little child-

Today a gentle pain filled my heart again. Just hurt, welling up, sorta heavy, yet sorta precious, like the weight of a little baby or quiet clinging child. There was no real way to cast it side, or leave it alone, so I stroked its head gently, and breathed its smell in, whispering quietly, "why, what happened? What do you want to say?"

Then I kept quiet, waiting for it to reply. It stayed quiet, and only clung closer, harder, tightening its grip like a child that holds on tightly to the sleeve of her mother's shirt, crumpling the fabric tight in all the spaces of her fingers. "What is it dear, what is it?" My heart, my heart was nearly breaking from its weight.

It nestled closer, wordless, unwilling to let go. And then I knew, the way a mother knows its child. It was quiet because it didn't know why or what was happening. It didn't know what to say. And so I knew, and yet I knew nothing. "Sleep well," I said, cradling its head, feeling tender but with eyes dry. "Sleep well." I kissed its forehead and shut my own eyes tight.

I know when day comes it will be sound asleep, in one little corner. It's the night, the long nights, when it wakes, a quiet, yet insistent, child.