I Am What’s Missing

Because I am here, my dad rolls to the end of the bed. My brother and I beg him to come snuggle under the comforter, but Dad insists there’s not enough room. I roll to my right and lay my head on the bony cage of my mother’s chest. I listen to her heartbeat, a rhythm familiar to every cell of my body. Mama smells like angel food cake and sleep, and I don’t want to let go. I wiggle my toes under Dad’s downturned belly for warmth while my brother’s hand touches my arm. He’s lying on the other side of Mama, talking her ear off, a trait that never stops with age. Brother and I hold hands across Mama’s ribs. We feel the shimmy and popping of bubbles in her stomach which makes us giggle. I hear the toilet flush before I realize Dad is gone. The three of us— Brother, Mama, and I—scooch to the middle of the bed. Lumbering footsteps get louder, and louder until Dad is back in the room. I’m squealing with excitement. Dad crawls over the three of us, placing one hand to my left, and his other to Brother’s right. We bellow “GOOOOOODNIIIIIIIIGHT…” just as Dad starts to rock the bed side to side so we can properly sing our evening song. Mom holds tight to Brother and me while she sings with Dad. I can’t stop laughing at this makeshift carnival ride. By the end of the song, we are a howling pile of snuggle-bugs. I smell Mama’s pajamas once more before my dad peels Brother and me off Mama and into our respective rooms. After Brother is tucked in, Dad comes to kneel at the side of my bed. I feel his fingers gently tickle my forehead, under my eyes, and down my nose. This is our ritual, something Dad’s been doing since I was an infant. At last, I feel his kiss on my forehead, then drift into dream.