Wind never waits.
Last night it must have slept, though. Rachel, Rhys and myself all dozed in bed together. Say what you will about the future, or the past - it felt complete. To wake up with little Rhys "sawing toothpicks" next to me. It was really something. He ended up crawling up onto my face in his slumber. So, what does a father do? Nothing at all - just wait it out, try slowly to get him to sleep flat on the bed next to me, rather than on me.
The little guy has started to talk in his sleep, cataloguing his inner world in murmurs, miniature declarations, chatting towards it as he goes.
It is easy to listen to, simple; so untroubled by time, uncrowded by anxiety; those sleeping fears that too easily occupy a more developed mind at rest.
I could sit and listen to it all morning, or so it seemed. Rhys sleeping on my face, chatting away at his world, as free to imagine as he is free from imaginings. Just as light as you would wish anybody's concerns to be.
Just that, light.
.
