Her head is nestled into my nook, that small space between my arm and my torso.
Together we’re gazing at the TV, but neither of us really watching. It’s on more to give us a perceived reason to sit there than for actual entertainment.
She is angled such that I can’t see her face. If I tried to get a good look, I would disturb her and our peaceful, little cuddle.
And it’s ok. Because I can see her face reflected in the face of each family member as they pass by us. Grandmom, Poppop, Aunt, they pause on their way from the family room to the kitchen to the bathroom. They tilt their heads to line their eyes up with hers. Their faces soften. Their mouths form a gentle ‘oh’ but only the quietest sigh comes out, as if a louder expression of pity would disturb the little bit of peace she seems to have found.
It all came on quite suddenly and it took us all by surprise. From running around, full speed, to sleepily clung to me, she fell fast to whatever bug has invaded her system. And, away from home and all that is familiar to her, she clung to me. It is with great pride that I serve her source of comfort.
Around us, grandparents jump to action. They rummage through cabinets and pantries in search of children’s ibuprofen. They produce thermometers and stand watch as I hold them under her arms. They wildly check expiration dates on their medicines and begin swearing when they realize that the date has passed. They gather coats and rush to the car. They pick up unexpired medicine and other provisions to cheer up a sullen little girl.
All the while, she and I are calm. We’re nestled. We’re quiet. I’m concerned, yes. There is always concern when she isn’t her normal, bubbly self. But I don’t need thermometers and medicine today. I just need to nestle her and make her comfortable.
Linking up with Write on Edge for RememeRED. The prompt this week was to select an old blog post and rewrite it as a memoir piece. This piece is based on an ever so small moment in my first stream of consciousness post back in November.