Ethan slept with me last night. And last Friday night too. Now he just falls asleep--instead of rolling and flopping all over the place like a fish on a rock. Both mornings I woke up barely hanging on to six inches of a California King size bed, but it's cool. He likes to stay close.
And yes, it did rain last night. So the color of things outside look darker and clean. It's definitely colder, just cold enough to where a cup of coffee tastes so good, the warm cup in your hands like a cozy fire.
Writing has been increasingly difficult. I don't have time to pay attention anymore to how I am feeling about what is going on, I just ride it out. My mother told me once working full time "takes you in an entirely different direction" than not working. I'm seeing a little bit of that, a little bit of being in one world forty hours a week and then trying to switch over to a different one the other remaining hours, which are few, really, if you take out sleeping. I find myself thinking of the "work" world on my weekends, waking up Saturday morning worrying about the problems waiting for me Monday morning.
And then there's Ethan. Sleeping like a picture beside me. His hair smells like Bisquick and his cheeks are soft like a white rose pedals. He's got his blankey, and when I roll out of bed he reaches his hands in the air, fists closed, eyes still shut tight, and then lets them fall with a sigh of his little breath. It's early morning dark and quiet when I leave the room, shutting the door quietly behind me.