I see her in my bed,
her body a few inches away from mine.
Almost as tall as me, but not quite yet.
She is fast asleep.
Hands clasped under her face, turned towards me,
tucked under a two-layered cocoon of warm brown flannel.
A pause. A beat.
And a rush of relief.
Not a toddler that kept me on my toes the whole day.
A battery-operated machine that went amma amma all day.
A tween who can get her own water.
Eyes closed, lips slightly apart, breathing rhythmically,
A little warm, and deep in sleep.
I see her in my bed,
Where I can reach out and touch
her left eyelid
which twitches ever so slightly
under the weight of childhood dreams.
I see her in my bed,
where I know her exact coordinates
in this world.
If there was to be a fire
or a gunman
or a pandemic,
she would be right next to me
for me to protect.
I see her in my bed.
A stillness and silence
fills the room.
Only the shield
of our shared
breaths, far away
from chaos.
I see her in my bed.
I don’t have to worry
about fires and floods
and lightning and choking
and intruders and perverts
and aliens and earthquakes
and tsunamis and volcanoes
and bombs and roofs caving in.
I see her in my bed.
I can be less vigilant.
I can sleep soundly, —
at least for tonight.
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