Twice she came to me in the night;
once to tell me she couldn’t sleep
and another to ask for a towel
because she had gotten sick.
I lead her to the bathroom,
wiped her face and pulled back a loose curl.
She washed her hands and brushed her teeth.
We spread blankets and pillows on the living room floor
and slept side by side. Tissues, towel, bowl close at hand.
There is a willowyness about her, especially
when her nutty-brown hair is loose
and hanging far below her shoulders. It
lends length to her thin arms and legs
and accentuates her petite face,
draws attention to her brown-hazel eyes;
they are deep and perceptive owl-eyes.
She has ups and downs through the day,
but twelve hours after her first bout of sickness
she is new again. Popsicle after popsicle stays down,
and crackers, and water, and juice.
She is better.
I stare into her owl-eyes and marvel at God’s miraculous creation.