I sit in my bed
Cocooned in the dark of the late hour
Small feverish boy restless beside me.
His hand on my arm feels paper dry,
Hot and light.
He murmurs his half-asleep thanks
As I change the damp washcloth on his head
To a cooler position.
A mother's heart cannot quite rest
When a child is sick.
She carries him closer
To keep watch.
My soul feels a little
Like this hot little hand on my arm.
A bit dried out around the edges,
Like a stiff breeze might blow me away.
Tired to the depths
Where only a whisper of light
Seeps in around the edges
There is something about having a sick kid that tends to tilt my world. It's not like I think that every fever means a fatal illness or anything like that. But when my babies are not well, my soul is just not at ease. When I went in to check on Nic before I went to get in bed for the night, he was hot and flushed. So I dosed him with Dalsy and brought him to my bed so I can reach him in the night and feel if he is hot again.
My soul has felt bruised today, the residue of me doing something hurtful without thinking. I am normally a thoughtful person and I found it extremely distasteful to discover this big brown smushy slightly rotten spot on my surface. All is mended but the lingering aftertaste of it has been sour in my mouth. So I sat in the dark and wrote my dehydrated poem.
Then I blog-surfed for awhile, periodically checking Nic to see if his fever had gone down. As I read the journeys of other people, I was reminded that I am not alone, that I am not the only one with slightly smushy spots on my self.
I keep vigil here over my flushed little boy, and God sprinkled me gently with His living water, enough to make me tilt my head back and drink what was already waiting there for me.
My soul feels plumper around the edges already.