He stands in our bedroom doorway draped like royalty in the blanket he drug from his bed.
Have I remembered, he wants to know. Remembered about this morning?
And I have. Remembered.
And so with love weighting each syllable, I pat the middle of our mattress and say, “Come on, son. Come up by mommy.”
And he does.
With a gentle left hand I smooth and part his hair. I pull my boy close to me with my right and wait as he nestles his rib cage closer to mine. There are a weekend’s worth of kisses to catch up on. And so as he gabs about wheelbarrow rides with cousins and the bath with jets at Nannie’s house, I press my lips to the sides of his head.
He is still a moment before he says, “Can you hear it?”
And I listen with my hand on his chest.
“It’s my heart,” he whispers. “It’s going beep…beep beep.”
We might have stayed there another minute–me, my boy, his beeping heart. But his love tank was full.
And it was his stomach that needed me now.