Your house in the middle of the day.
Small children roam, searching for the next toy.
You sat in the big chair,
the one we can sit in at the same time, shoulder to shoulder,
like it knew just how much room we would need.
You in the chair, me on the ottoman in front of you.
You threatened to take off my socks so I curled up on that square, my feet far from you, and pretended to be asleep.
And soon I wasn't pretending anymore.
Then we were both asleep.
You on the big chair, me on the big square.
I've never been afraid to fall asleep in front of you.
In front of anyone else, I try my very hardest to stay awake
or hide my face so they won't see.
A sleeping being is so vulnerable,
so horribly vulnerable,
even the thought can make me uncomfortable, even now.
I'm like my dad, put me in a dark room and play a movie,
chances are my drooping eyes will get the better of me.
I'll try so hard not to nod off,
or find a pillow to hide behind,
or wake to whispers "Is she asleep?", utterly embarrassed.
But with you I never felt that knot in my stomach that ruined any chance for rest.
I simply fell.
The time when you were sick, and I was overworked and we watched Simon Birch with your sisters.
We were asleep before we realized it, the daylight disappeared while we had our eyes closed.
Kept warm by our matching sweaters,
I nearly died of comfort.