His voice, like dozens of rainbow Lorikeets.

“They always say it doesn’t much matter if you STAY up. The main point is getting up.”

So, that’s what I do. I peel my eyelids open and wince against the thud of my steps on the tile. Brush my teeth, put on yesterday’s pajamas, found hanging on the edge of the medicine cabinet. Twist my dreadlocked curls into a bun. Turn down the AC. Death march back to the comforting gloom. Burrow into the center of the bed.

My ears are pricked and turned towards the front door. I am waiting for his father’s hand on the lockset, the rattle of keys.

“Mom!”

It’s like a dozen rainbow Lorikeets have swooped into the room. His voice is winged, it’s in primary colors, it’s eyes pin when it reaches me.

The Velcro on his shoes screams in protest as he rips them off. I hear his sandals thud against the back of his closet, underneath my twenty four year old Schwinn. Then he is lumbering up into the bed, all elbows and knees.

My son has seen me cry so often this year he is not frightened by it. It is his normal. When he asks, I tell him that Mom and Dad have a sick friend. My mind does a little pirouette and realizes that Fox’s likely met him. I do not explain who it is.

My arms are long. He has his face turned against my chest and I’d swear I could wrap them around him and them back around myself. Tie his wrists in a knot. His chest is thin, we are bone on bone. The slow run of my tears is darkening the ephemeral, white-blonde crown that is catching them. I can feel his heart beating and it is slow and calm and regular. He is untroubled by my emotion.

I am a pendulum swinging between guilt and pride.