Vacation's End

They're sleeping upstairs.  My wife, daughter, and dog are all tucked into my bed, warm under the pillowing down comforter and snuggled against each other as if holding on.  My bed is a raft, buoying them up.  I was with them only moments ago, also holding on, my daughter curled up between Tracy and I, the dog at my feet.  I lie there listening to the sounds of their breathing, to the soft snuffling of the dog, the tiny puff of exhale from Shea, and the corrugated breathing of my wife as it slid gently toward a soft snore.

It was peaceful.  The last two weeks have given my family the chance to spend a lot of quality time together.  In that time, I've been able to see just how tender and beautiful my wife is.  How her emotions were worn to a jagged edge from worry and expectation.  I've noticed how my daughter is becoming a young lady.  How she's learned what it means to share and how much she loves us.  The dog?  Well, the dog is like another one of my children.  She needs attention and reassurance.  On the days we were in the hospital with Shea, she had diarrhea and was a nervous wreck.  On the day she returned to our house and saw the family reassembled there, her digestion returned to normal.  She needs us as much as this family needs each other.

So, I left the warm buoyancy of a sleep filled afternoon to sit in front of my computer.  I needed to write out of gratitude and love, and the warm glow of fear receding.   The last couple of times I've written, the words have been choked with the gasping anxiety of fear and I needed to find a new chord, a new sound to words.  I form them in the shallow cave of my mouth, roll them with my tongue, and sample the taste of each one: the warm nougat of "family", the sharp saltiness of "fear" that conjures images of blood and flesh, and the sweet slide of "love" that sticks to my lips like honey fresh from a sun-warmed jar. 

My life is a good one.  I have a wife who loves me, who tries with a sincere fortitude to understand me.  I have a precocious child who understands the needs of others and, when faced with the child in the hospital bed next to hers, gives away one of her balloons so that child will feel special too.  I have a home that feels that way, soft and inviting and able to hold the swelling throngs of family and friends we've collected over a lifetime.  I have my health and a job that challenges me and forces me to ask questions, to experiment, to learn, and to grow.

So, I sit here on the eve of vacation's end and I evaluate my life.  Maybe it's the dawning of a new year that demands it, I don't know, but I'm in an introspective, evaluating mood.  So far, I like what I see.  I will hold on to my family in that raft of a bed.  I will cradle them and caress their hair and whisper "I love yous" into the silence of the room.  What they don't know, what they haven't figured out, is that it isn't the raft of the bed that keeps me afloat, but them.  Their vacated breath fills me up with something intangible and unsinkable.  I'll start the day tomorrow, the first one back into routine, with two weeks worth in reserve.