I press into my bed.
My arms and legs deepen into this version of warmth as my room grays in soft layers around me. The finest shades of silver and iron and temples edged with stories.
This storm demands my attention, and I give it willingly.
Each windowsill tap holds its own memory.
The best novels read well in to the night. Chinese food eaten in bed. Eighties movies. Stolen kisses.
My storm history is long and sweet, and so I welcome the familiar sound of rain against open windows.
Not the case down the hall.
My children’s whispers are anything but quiet. Their footsteps mirror the feeling.
Storms are not (yet) welcome into their nights.
Edging against my pillows, I find a cooler part of my small space in this big bed, and wait.
I wait for those loud footsteps to make their way to me, but they don’t.
So I, of course, slide out of my bed and into my slippers and make my mothering way to them.
Peeking into Brody’s room, I see that his covers are triangled.
The space where he crawled out, and escaped alone, is marked. I don’t have to go far to find him.
My three have found Together.
I still at the doorway to breathe them in.
They’re all arms and legs and blankets and pillows. Their voices weave as they claim spaces puzzle pieced to one other.
I hope that this etches as their first storm memory; I can hardly think of a better story to tell.
We often wonder about the tug and pull of siblings. What they take and share and split and maneuver from each other.
But this way that they have of sweetening even the stormiest of nights together, is an unexpected gift that belongs to them, and to me.
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