Yellow Heaven
I sleep beside my daughter, in her bed, when I’m feeling sad. It’s a single bed. 75” in length. 36” in width. With both the little girl and myself in it, I have to sleep on my side just so I don’t fall off and wrap an arm around her the whole night, my butt literally suspended off the smoothened pinewood edge.
The bed is yellow. I chose it precisely because it’s cheery.
The thin plyboard that holds up the mattress (a mattress too soft it hurts my back sometimes) creaks a bit. The bed’s built to bear the weight of a young girl’s but not that of her mother’s too.
But I love sleeping on this yellow, cheery, creaky bed.
Most nights these days, my little girl is in deep slumber by the time I come home from work. So late at night, when all is done, I climb into her bed slowly, careful not to wake her, and gently snuggle up. I whisper ‘I love you’ and kiss her on the forehead. I watch her sleeping for a bit. She looks so serene, so angelic, I am calmed, and all the sadness and stresses of the long day are swept away. Her scent – that fresh, honey baby scent she at 4 hasn’t lost yet – soothes me like a lavender bath. The rhythm of her breathing is as a lullaby. I am quieted and filled slowly but surely with sweet sleep. I try to fight it off even so, that sleep, so I can relish the moment, aware, just me and my contentment, as long as I possibly can.
I wake to her stirring sometimes in the middle of the night. I run my hand up and down her back tenderly to reassure her I’m there. The nightmare goes away soon enough. Mommy’s here. She too seems comforted by the soft beating of a loving heart close by.
I am at my happiest and wish the morning would not come, as it invariably does, too soon.