It is late, and quiet it should be. But this silence is somehow palpable tonight. I am awake alone, mildly sick, and it feels almost as though I am getting away with something.
The dog is sleeping at the foot of my bed and my daughter fell asleep beside me. I went downstairs to make tea when I should be sleeping.
I should put my daughter in her own bed, but I relish the sound of her soft snoring and the sight of her slightly contorted posture; half atop and half under the covers.
I am sipping tea and writing when I should be sleeping, but perhaps these feed me more.
I am comforted by the thick silence of the house and I want to soak it in -- or maybe just rest in it -- but I don't want to miss it in slumber.
Soft snore after soft snore fade in and out of the enveloping silence. My awareness of it like the wave of my mind in meditation, riding in and out of now.
She stirs and her breath softens to a whisper.
My eyes are heavy, but I am content.
The tea in my cup is still warm, so I will indulge my pen for a while.