I charge my phone at night, like most people I guess. When i wake up I reach above my head and unplug it, and check out what happened since bedtime. This morning was no different as I buried myself in a string of emails and status updates from people around the country. Then I set it down and looked beside me. There was the man I married, quietly snoring, vulnerable. His skin was soft and warm but I hadn't noticed, being distracted by the metal device in my hands. On the other side of me was a child who had slipped in during the night, mouth slacked, arms pretzeled around me. For the first time I noticed the birds singing outside the window.
There is something deeply endearing about watching a sleeping body, and when you happen to love them too it is doubly so. Arguments and annoyances become obsolete, when I find myself in the hushed presence of dreams. John's eyelids moved. Where was his imagination meandering? He was no more aware of me than I had been of him for the last twenty minutes but I was supposedly awake. I wonder if he dreamed about me.
How had I completely missed this rich and precious feast for my senses? Does news about delayed flights and the view of a lake I will never see trump the real time experience of being close enough to a heartbeat that I could hear it if I paused to listen?
I lay there awhile longer and savored their presence. I memorized the curves of their arms, and the way their boundaries had dropped like clothes just before you step into a steaming shower. The folds of the quilts around them had kept them cozy in the darkness, like generosity that asks nothing in return.
It is not such a small thing to be physically close to people. Even when the words get stopped up like a sluggish drain or an undeliverable letter, perhaps our limbs find ways to talk to each other. I have heard that hearts begin to beat in sync when they are nearby.
That's a start.
