The Last Nightly Song

Her hand came up before I got one note out. No song, she said. I'm big now. Three years of that song, every single night, and just like that it was done. She didn't even look sad about it. She just said it like she was telling me the sky was blue.

have you ever felt this way too?

My hands kept going anyway, doing the thing they always do. I started humming. One more, I whispered, like it was for her. She rolled over toward the wall. And she said no again, softer this time, already half gone into sleep.

So I stopped. I sat there on the floor in the dark next to her bed and I didn't sing, and I didn't say anything, and I just let the quiet be there. It was so loud. I kept thinking about all the nights I'd rushed through that song to get downstairs to the dishes.

Then her hand slid off the blanket and found my arm. Half asleep, not even meaning to. I didn't grab it. I didn't turn it into a whole thing. I just let it stay where it landed and I stayed too.