Sometimes we play telephone. My son from a sound sleep, he calls me. Momma, I'm hungry. From another room he calls me without words, Momma, I'm hungry.
I wake. My mind is clear and the room is silent. I stretch my legs, adjust my hips, and push my shoulders back. My feet touch cold sheets. I move back into my former position. I stretch again and roll onto my back.
We've become more comfortable with our son and now sleep without nightlights. We have more night than light, more sleep than waking each evening. Tonight, the only light is from the large, sickle moon low over the cohosh ridge. The clock says 5:30am.
A month ago (or was it 6 weeks ago?), seeing 3:30am on the clock meant that I had made it through another night. It meant that I could do it again.
I stretch one more time, enjoying the quiet, the time alone. Peace.
I hear my son shift, his breathing changes subtly. Hello, Momma? I'm hungry.