The day has long grown thin, and patches of once blue sky have been pricked with golden pins to let the last of the faraway light shine in. They glow in countless wishes and the teetering twinkle of far-off diamonds rubbed dull from the sound of children whispering what it is that they shouldn’t tell. Who am I to say what might come true? I know nothing of dreams in the dark, but I can see the shade being found by fingers of the night, and tag, that is it. We are all going in, no matter how they cry.
Routine is based loosely upon the lacking of it.
A tender tooth is brushed soft with promise, its money well spent. Faces are washed, pajamas put on, and streams are crossed despite the warnings. Their beds are doorways and they want them left open. They will let sleep knock until it knocks them over. I will kiss them goodnight and once more when they don’t even know it and their room breathes light like a mason jar heavy with fireflies.
I fill the hours between their eyes closing and mine wide open with deadlines and other shapes more alive and slightly more forgiving. We all fight to stay awake and away, but my heart isn’t in it. It is in words and slow sips that linger on my tongue like the warmth of a day that seems days ago.
If there is a bottom to the bottle I don’t want to find it.
Image from Pixar’s Oscar-nominated short La Luna and the wonderful imagination of Enrico Caserosa