This used to be routine for us, a non-negotiable given, a cyclical reprieve.
At this same time each afternoon, after details of the day had worn us down,
We would gather here, mother and child, resigned and ready for rest.
You were smaller then, a nursing babe, and I would pull you in close.
Skin to skin, we would fall into quiet; you, drunk on milk, and me, on oxytocin.
The world would grow still. The weight of it would lift and fall away.
Now that you are three, these moments are fewer, but nevertheless
On occasion, after we’ve absorbed the world to satisfaction and feasted well,
A spontaneous opening occurs and we find ourselves here again.
Like today, when frustrations mounted and the ticking clock taunted,
And we both rebelled, racing to the room with the humming fan and purring cat.
Lying in repose next to restful you, I recognized the brief, divine gift of bliss.