Requiem for a Bottle

She brings him a bottle every morning. Laying it right between our sleeping forms. I hear her as she pads into my room, presenting her prize like an offering to a tiny god. I never hear her leave, never hear her walk pass in the first place. She tries to be silent, to not wake us. I pretend to still be asleep, spooning the tiny body to my left as he stirs lightly.

She brings him a bottle at 7:30 am, every day without fail. It's a simple gesture that says, "I know what you need." A simple reminder that she understands his routine. And when he awakens he reaches for it, so naturally, so expectantly. One small hand curling upward, between our forms, grasping the warm, full bottle. It's a simple gesture that says, "I know you didn't forget." A simple reminder that says he trusts her to respect his routine.

She brings him a bottle but always leaves it closed - just in case, so he taps my eyelids, waking me. Without opening my eyes I remove the lid and hand it back, pulling the blanket around me just a bit tighter. He leans against me quietly and drinks. It's a simple gesture that says, "I know you're still tired." A simple reminder that he knows my routine. And once he's full he drops the bottle onto the bed, lays next to me and nuzzles my neck.

She brings him a bottle every morning and it's a simple gesture, a simple reminder that she knows I need that extra hour of sleep. Thank you, mom, my cup is full.