One night last week, Hubby put the kids to bed. I poked my head in to say goodnight to Abby, who lay in bed reading. I started across the hall to say goodnight to Henry and heard the faintest singing.
I reached his door, which was cracked open, and pushed my head inside. The smallest, green light from his Lego nightlight muted the dark. I could barely make him out in the jumbled heap of his covers. I stood quietly and undetected by Henry.
I listened to his song.
His faint voice, not unlike his night light, muted the dark. He sang an original composition of his day, the exact words muffled by his white, down comforter. I heard snippets about letters, a friend, a song. Even though I couldn’t make out all the words, I could tell that joy scored the song. I leaned in a bit further, held my breath and deciphered the last verse:
(Humming first, then)
I love my Dad
I love my Sister
I love my Mom
They are the best
I slowly backed away from his door and walked the hallway to my bedroom. The night lights spilled their honey glow onto the hardwood floors, illuminating my path, a path I could walk in the dark with my eyes closed. A hallway I’ve walked countless times: sometimes seething in anger, other times with bland ambivalence, sometimes counting dust bunnies, other times carrying towering piles of laundry. On this evening, I floated down the hall with a sated heart, feasting on the small slice of my son’s song of supplication.
These small slices of grace. These are what make life worthwhile.