The last hour of this day

The last hour of this dayThe day has slipped into the night a long time ago.

Children’s sweaty bodies are draped across their beds. Miniature chests move up and down, gently letting air in and out and the little mouths open up halfway to let it all happen a little more conveniently.

Behind closed eyelids little boys awaken in another world, slaying dragons and flying over roofs.

Beside me lies their dad, in whom I can see little pieces from all of them.
His labored breathing could almost be called snoring and his mouth opens just like theirs.

I tiptoe down the stairs to close the door and can’t resist going outside for just a few minutes.

To lie down on the damp grass and stare into the night sky.
The stars are staring right back.

They can already see the day of tomorrow coming. Far, far away over the horizon.
I beg them to keep it at bay for just a few more hours, but all they do is stare back at me wordlessly.

The cool night flows around me, crawling up my skin as if it’s a paint brush just dipped in goosebump-paint.

I don’t want to go to sleep yet. I want to hold this moment just a little longer.

The evening is for dreams, for everything that is yet to come.

And now, in this hour that is left to me before the clock relentlessly announces the arrival of tomorrow, anything is possible.

That, from now on, I will only pour kind words into those trusting little hands my children stretch out to me.

It is possible that I will have the energy to do all the things I think I will do.

That I will always know who I am, and that I will never forget that.

That I will never have black outs in which I forget that who I am has nothing to do with what I accomplish.

That I will never be confused about whether those children need a hug or a darn good scolding.

And that I will know what to cook for supper.

Right now, anything is possible. I can’t give it up just yet.

As if, by staying up for five more minutes, I could overwrite every hour of today.

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