Love Lessons

She creeps into my bedroom just before morning.

Little feet, silent on the tile, padding down the darkened hallway.

She doesn't like the dark.

I think about her before I go to bed at night. I wonder if her steps will be slow and shuffling; if she'll be anxious. I make sure the path between our rooms is clear. I keep my door wide open. I don't want there to be anything unexpected, anything in her way, when she's padding down the hall at night.

Night after night, she stands next to me and whispers. "Mommy," she says, and I pull her into bed beside me. I don't speak. She doesn't fuss. We don't ask each other questions. She just squirms close to my body and then turns away; and, the truth is, it's all such a habit, such a routine, I barely notice.

Last night something different happened.

"You're cold," she whispered. "You're cold, Mommy." She leaned over and peered into my eyes. Her pupils were wide and anxious; darker, somehow, than the darkness. "Are you okay?"

I nodded.

She smiled.

She stroked my hair and covered me with blankets. She patted my shoulder. Then she squirmed close to my body, just like always, and turned away.

--- and I'm writing this quickly because the sun is shining and I've just been invited to the best tea party EVER, but I want to remember.

I want to remember: The love we give to others comes back to us someday.