A Mother's Dream

I am dreaming a daytime dream of a long nap in a dark, quiet room, uninterrupted by small cries, clamoring children, and urgent, unmet needs. My blankets are thick, soft and heavy across my limbs. My body sinks into the bed like sand packed tight on a warm, wet beach on a sweltering summer afternoon. My eyelids drop like a guillotine blade, cutting me from consciousness as swiftly and irrevocably as a beheading. The pillows embrace my ears like long lost friends at a reunion.

The white noise of the wind and snow keeps any other sounds from my sanctuary. The phone doesn't ring. No one knocks at the door. My name is not uttered for hours on end. Everyone is quiet and content in my dream, silent and satisfied outside my bedroom door.

I sleep for as long as I want to sleep. Hours pile upon lazy hours like afghans on a northeastern couch over the long winter. Not a word is spoken.

I wake slowly, deliciously dozing and peeking at consciousness at my own lingering pace. Eventually, I sit up and stretch. I want tea. When I emerge from the dark, quiet cave of my imagination my family is happily occupied throughout our home, each beloved body bathed in the early evening light reflecting off the thick, white snow outside. And there is hot tea with milk and honey.