Me standing watch.
• • •
Neither of us are okay.
But only one of us can fall apart tonight.
I go find the Tylenol.
Leave it with a glass of water on the coffee table.
A small, stupid, useless gesture.
The only thing I can do right now.
He stirs.
Just barely.
His eyes crack open and find me in the dark and he makes a sound that isn’t a word but means everything — relief and grief and love all compressed into one broken exhale — and then he reaches for me.
Both arms.
All the way.
I sit on the edge of the couch and let him pull me in and he holds on in a way he hasn’t since I was very small.
Since I was the one who needed holding.
His whole body shaking.
Trying not to.
Not quite managing.
• • •
The man who has smiled through everything.
Every scraped knee and panic attack and slammed door.
Every hard thing I ever brought home.
He smiled through all of it.
Made it smaller.
Made it survivable.
• • •
He can’t smile through this.
“I’ve got you,” I say into his hair.
My mom’s words.
Her exact words.
