You look so small I want to cup you in my hands, carry you away from your bed and bathe you gently in the bird bath amongst the dwarf tulips on the east lawn. I feel certain that you have lost your dozen years of growth; evaporated to the weight of a toddler.
The bedding has been changed and the white sheets are so crisp and crease-free that I can barely see your outline. I lean closer and inhale. I love the smell of fresh linen, hung out to dry in the spring sun, catching the perfume of primroses and violets off the breeze. I stroke the side of your face and start to whisper your favourite bedtime story; a family mythology made real through repetition.
“Before the world was born, the black soul of the Great Bear spread across the universe. Centuries passed; millennia; seconds of infinite time; past, present and future merging into nothingness.