The night shift

The beauty of the night cannot be underscored enough. The room’s white curtains, appearing tanned due to the dim light thrown by the hallway, are fluttering back eagerly, its fabric entangled in the most delicate of dances. Sometimes it looks like the sail of a boat, capturing the wind with a single curve; other times it twists and folds itself, sometimes violently, on the commands of its master.

The humidity, heavily lingering for days now, appears to have been blown away by the breeze. All that is left now is long overdue comfort alongside a small chorus of chirping crickets and a  neighbor’s wind chimes, each lazily singing their own songs.

As I pause at the window, I take a deep breath and try to force my happily exhausted brain to remember every detail: the way the flowers in my backyard gardens are illuminated by the light outside, the way the breeze feels, lingering on my bare skin even after I turn away, the softness of Max’s fur between my fingers as I stoop down to offer him a few comforting pats before reaching the bedroom. I won’t remember this blissful, peaceful feeling tomorrow, when exhaustion and frustrations set in. But as I lay down, my  head nestling into my pillow, surrounded by the baby’s gentle, even breathing and the loud, dramatic snores of my husband, a smile forms on my chapped lips and I feel truly at peace.


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