I've become accustomed to phone calls in the middle of the night. With everything that's happening with my father, it isn't unusual. Last night, for example, was one such instance, only it was AP who woke up first.

"Honey? Honey? Call your dad" he said, shaking me gently. "He's been calling and texting us both."

"What's he say?" I slur, still sleep drunk.

"Just '911'" he replies, and I know that these unspecific but highly dramatic requests are dad's way of eliciting a response over something that probably isn't actually a 911.

I did, though. I called my father and then the nurse's station and then my father again. I finally hung up the phone, feeling like overstretched elastic, thinking to myself that this part of life has become almost too absurd to even bear. Then AP's voice drifted over, like a lifeline out of the dark.

"Well? Was he calling to have you bring him some Quiznos?"

Which was funny because it really was the most likely scenario and wasn't actually too far from the case. It felt a little like some of the weight of it all escaped with my breath as I laughed.

"Thanks for getting up with me," I whispered.

"I like waking up with you" he replied.

We lay there, laughing and whispering, not that there was anyone else to wake,  but there is something about talking out loud which wakes the day. We didn't want that, so we lay there, a couple of happy shadows. Slowly, the absurdity faded, trumped by that glad, heavy limbed feeling of still being half asleep, and the pleasure that followed the thought that we are still delighted after seven years to wake up next to one another, no matter how superfluous the hour or reason

And I thought to myself;

Oh darling, always stay. Lets never leave this cotton and quiet place, even in the light of day.

 

 

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