one night in a life

I am pleased with my efforts of being a strict mom, and have always kept a schedule for night time. Play, dinner, study, wash, bed. The girls are to be abed at eight o'clock in the evening - most often to say their prayers and go to sleep, but sometimes to chat for awhile among themselves, or for me to comb their hair with a hundred strokes, and if sleep is difficult to come by, to read a book till they get drowsy.

I was relaxing with a glass of red wine and Reader's Digest when I heard her sniffling by my bedroom door. She was crying because she could not sleep. My eight-year old baby girl.

So I walked her back to the bedroom she shared with her older sister. She went back to her bed, wiping her tears. I comforted her that she does not have to cry if she cannot sleep. She was worried she will lack some sleeping hours. I look at her and wonder if she might be more worried about being the only one awake in the house.

I combed her hair with my hand. Her hair has grown into this wonderfully straight soft dark brown. She used to have just a fistful of strands standing up in a funny way, but that was eight years ago. When Brahm's lullaby, my squeaky version, was enough.

So I got my lotion and massaged her arms, her back, her stomach, her legs. Then I eased myself beside her in the bed. I touched her cheeks as she faced me with her eyes closed. She whispered, goodnight mom. I whispered back, goodnight Gela, I love you.

She smiled, with her eyes shut tightly, forcing sleep to come.

Then she reached for my arm and squeezed it a little. I'm glad you're here mom. I squeezed back. I'm happy and privileged to be here. After a few seconds, she squeezed once more. You're still here. I squeezed back again. Yes, and I'm not leaving till you're well asleep. Our silent conversation.

Gela and I have devised that secret means of communication. Walking along the aisles of the city malls, we would be swaying and we would be squeezing each other's hands. To signal a pretty dress on display, a new Barbie doll model, or just to remind that the pointing must stop.

Then it hit me. Lying down there face to face with my daughter, I realized that will be how I will go. I'd be in my sickbed and unable to talk. For all my prattle and nonstop talk now, I think I'll be speechless when it's my time to go. And I'll be holding her hand. Her hand because she will be squeezing me softly, and asking me to squeeze back. And I will. And when I will stop, then that is it.

It flashed before me clearly like a neon sign. And silently, I cried and laughed and cried. And knew completely that I love very much this girl, who now has stopped squeezing my hand. She is fast asleep.

Goodnight my darling girl. Sweet dreams.