Henry read me poetry last night. It’s something he does every now and then. It’s not so much the meaning of the poems or even the words that I love so much, but the gentle hum of his voice. The soothing timbre calms me down. It stills me.
The air is warm and thick, the kind of air that makes you lazy. Our broken air conditioner has the house feeling like a studio after dance class. One leg under the covers, another leg out. A busy fan blowing in the window.
There’s a cricket that lives outside the window. Jiminy. He comes alive at ten o’clock, right as Henry and I are about to fall asleep. He’s loud, but very polite, waiting till we’re done asking all our questions before he chirps his wisdom.
Over my shoulder I catch a glimpse of Henry. An artist in his sleep, his hand found the shape of God’s creation of Adam.
I ask Jiminy, “Can I stay here forever…in these Summer nights…in this bed…in his dreams?”
His answer, “Fate is kind. She brings to those who love the sweet fulfillment of their secret longing.”