My wife and I share another meal. It is 9:30 and our daughter is finally asleep in her room. The day has been so long and hard that we eat off the same plate. We don't speak. The sounds of knives cutting through meat, forks scratching the plate and ice cubes settling in glasses fill the air as much as our silence. Even though I don't know what time it is where you are, I imagine that you are putting your son to sleep. I see you bending over his bed, tucking the sheets tight. Maybe you are singing softly to him. I see him look at you as he tries to say good night, but you put your hand over his, raise a finger to your lips and say, "Ssshhh." You turn around, walk to the door and turn out the light. Only the moon lighting your way down the dark stairs to the kitchen where your husband is making supper.
The sound of dishes hitting the sink brings me back. I get up from the table, try to help my wife clean up. We don't need to talk anymore. Things just get done. As she turns on the water and waits for it to get hot, I kiss the back of her neck. She leans her head forward, turns off the water. As we climb the stairs to our room, I hold her hand tight and try to imprint on my mind every detail of the night: the smell of sweat on her neck, moonlight shining through the windows, the faint rustle of clothes hitting the floor, all the ways the night falls equally on us all. |
