Bedtime

The sun has set . . . gone to another part of the world, they liked to say. It wasn't moonlight glowing through the slats of the blinds covering the windows . . . though, it was more fun to think that than acknowledge the less poetic reality of the over-illuminating pulsations of the street lamp streaming into his bedroom.

The dinner-time giggles had subsided. It had been an especially engaging evening meal. With dancing jazz notes skipping around the room, they broke bread. Mom, can I be finished, he said, satisfied and exhibiting the tell-tale signs of boredom once what one moment was entertaining, the next moment was no longer.

Bathtime was followed by stories . . . the Daddy-kind of stories, each dragon, each dinosaur with a different voice. A yawn . . . then another . . . his head buried in his pillow. Day is done.

It was her turn now. The soft dim of the night-stand lamp let her know he was asleep . . . though his restlessness let her know he had not yet arrived in the Land of Nod.

As she snuggled in next to him . . . only for a brief wish good night . . . a small kiss is followed by a blessing . . . Lord, keep him safe and healthy.

As her lips lovingly brush his cheek, his eyes flutter and he turns toward her. A smile lights up his face. Even in slumber he seems to know she's there . . . that indescribable connection between mother and son.

Her heart swells as his smile penetrates her being. Life . . . work . . . the conflicts often torture her mind. Yet, it is the inherent response in the dusk of a day from a small boy to the love of his mother that is her tonic. Her peaceful resolve. Basked in the slatted glow of the street lamp, she acknowledges all is good.