Two Breaths

Every night.

I go into your room.

I check for two breaths.

Some nights, I sneak.  Some, I barge.  Others, I try to be quiet and fail. (WTF? I thought stepping on Legos wasn’t supposed to happen until much later.)

I put my hand on you.  Usually your back.

And wait for two breaths.

Your warmth reassures me initially.

But I need to feel those two breaths.

Sometimes you’re lightly snoring.  And should pass without touching.

Sometimes you even move and should pass without hearing.

Every time, I must feel two breaths anyway.

When you don’t breath fast enough or deep enough for me to feel them, I poke you until you move.  (It’s mean to wake a sleeping child, to the parents and the child, but I need to.)

You’re breathing!  You’re alive!

Your father thinks I’m crazy and refuses to do it when I’m not home.  Of course, he’s breathing and alive, what else would he be?

I think about my job and want to say that it could be all over so quickly but that’s a too sad of thought to go to bed with.  So I sigh.

And I know I’ll be back again tomorrow night.

– Momma


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