Light in a Dark Room

"I learn tonight
how many years

of learning by heart
I waited for you."
— John Berger

Just a few minutes ago, I opened the door to her pitch black bedroom. I listened to the humidifier's whirring as my eyes adjusted to the light. When I walked in quietly, I noticed her blanket-the one she must have to sleep- in a crumpled heap on the floor. My heart sped up for a second while I scanned the room. Finally, I realized she was right in front of me, curled into a C on the rocking chair with her faithful monkey tucked under her arm. Her bathrobe was swaddled around her, and her feet dangled off just a little.

My heart swelled instantly. I turned to run for the camera, and then just as quickly, stopped and turned back. Some things can't be captured. Some were meant to live in that space of my heart reserved for the sweetness a mother is lucky enough to know. I stood there as the soft light from the kitchen fell over her, and took it in for a few seconds. Then I scooped her up, and monkey too, and they both had covers pulled up to their chins without even stirring at all.

I closed the door, and felt a few tears sting behind my glasses. Because it's so much work, and so hard. But, oh, it is so beautiful.

And all I could think as I walked down the hall to my room is, "I get to do this again. These things, maybe not the same, but just as lovely and fleeting. They aren't gone yet."

How lucky I am to know I will have these moments twice.