The ceiling fan spins above us. Lazy but effective.

It’s hot, humid, summer. And we are adrift in a big bed – the one with no frame or headboard. The one we’ve had thirteen years now. White sheets billow soft around us. Me and him. We share the sacred moment of the Sunday afternoon nap. Knowing I leave tomorrow for a project that will take me two nights away from this bed, suddenly makes it all the more important – hiding out here with him.

But we are rarely alone for long.

Small footsteps, a blond head and a whispered request to climb the bed, share the sheets. He snuggles in between us – this nearly five-year-old piece of us. And the boat rocks and the heart feels full and the fan blows warmth over us.

And then the baby who’s not really a baby anymore wants to join us too. And he brings his puppy and teddy bear and bottle of milk. A boy on either side, I lie and look at the man who made them with me. We smile tired across their heads; hope that everyone falls back asleep soon. Naps are not to be taken lightly.

The fan spins. The white sheet flaps. Small toes peek out from corners. Chests rise and fall rhythmic peace and I have an ache in my neck and a much more powerful one in my heart.

This is what home feels like.

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