Krista Lee Hanson
Snuggling My Son to Sleep Haibun
Dearest child, contours of your long face softened in the night’s shadows, thin wisps of first facial hair disappearing in the dark. No room for me on the other side of the bed where tubes snake to machines that keep you breathing. We lie on our sides, face to face. I admire your eyelids, nose, cheeks and lips, the whole of you like I did when you were an infant in my arms. When the machines were so much bigger than your delicate baby body entangled in monitor wires.
Ventilator whooshes and purrs. Old house creaks under the cat’s silent steps. Your thumb reaches for your mouth, even as you grow past my height. I brush your loose hair from your face like I have one thousand times before. You, who feign teenage disdain at my jokes but still do not protest when I plant kisses on your forehead as you roll out the door to school; you, who have a full life I could never have imagined when they handed us the name of your rare disease, a tiny Latin poem in my mouth; you, who still need me to brush the long bangs aside, brush your teeth, lift your arms, remove the shoes, roll you over, roll you back, tilt your head, adjust the pillows, rearrange and stretch and reposition your body again and again and again.
We often fall asleep together: you, the wakeful and me, the heavy sleeper. When you call in the night, I crawl into your bed, hoping my sleep will be infectious. But on this night I open my eyes, soak in the soft details of you. Our noses just an inch apart, I am overwhelmed by your precious beauty, by the sweetness of your trust, the intimacy of lying here so close to each other. This dependency. This care. Your trust as I steward your body toward breath. Our joy in this deep entanglement.
We know each other, our bodies and hearts and each inhalation, from so very close. I arrange my body so we mirror each other, noses, elbows, knees brushing under the quilt. I reach my arm up over your bony shoulder, run my hand along your back, and feel you fall asleep in the cradle of my breath.
I would trade a thousand
things for this moment, your trust
so big it hurts
Krista Lee Hanson lives in Seattle, home of the Coast Salish people, with her partner and two children. Krista’s writing about care, parenting and disability has appeared in The Rumpus, The Normal School, Rad Families, A Celebration and other publications. When not writing or parenting, Krista runs by the lake, leads mindfulness classes, supports organizing for our collective liberation, and waits for the sourdough to rise.