Eyes flutter open and the dreaded realization of her loneliness creeps in again. She decides to pull the covers back quietly lest she disturb the monsters that are lurking under her bed or for certain in the closet. Tip-toe, tip-toe down the hall until she arrives at their door.
Just the sight of them brings a sigh of sweet relief. Her Dad is snoring steadily with hands folded over the fluff of hair on his chest. The street light dances softly over her mom's face as the branch blows outside the window. She has often wondered why her mother insists on one leg being outside the daffodil covered comforter, but never remembers to ask in the morning. She crawls into her spot between the wall and the top of her parents pillows and she waits. Only a few seconds tick by and her mom reaches out for her little four year old hand, not realizing in the wee hours of the night, that it was so much more than a lullaby. She was speaking the subconscious language of her love, her pledge, her fidelity to care for the scared little soul.
To rise in the morning out of her parents bed, even with them missing and already busy with their day was like winning the lottery. Nothing competes with the splendid assurance that comes from residing aside those you cherish the most in the world. The first people to tell you who you are. So when she has met age and her husband has just turned out the light for evening, she waits for the pitter patter of feet coming down the stairs and when they come in and burrow next to her, she smiles and welcomes with open arms a peaceful night that whispers, "you belong".
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