Darkness & Light

I am up at 1:00 am to the sound of my daughter coughing. I find her stumbling, half-asleep toward my bedroom. She’s scooped into my arms and placed quietly back into bed.

A hand to her forehead, then a thermometer. The fever pulsing through her body for nearly a week fights on. I stumble downstairs, half-asleep myself, and fumble for cough syrup.

3:00 am — I wake to the sound of coughing — my son this time. The thermometer, mercifully, reveals no fever. I pour more cough syrup and find my way back to bed.

5:00 am — I wake, one last time, to the sound of coughing. My daughter finds me in the dark, and together, we tip toe back to her room.

The fever has broken at last. I snuggle next to her on the bottom bunk, hoping my presence will lull her back to sleep. It works. I hear her breathing deeply beside me and breathe deeply myself.

The phone buzzes to life. School is cancelled. We get a snow/sick day. My tired, tense body relaxes… ahh, we get to stay home and rest today.

My daughter sleeps until 10:00am. Her weary body finally catching up and fighting back.

My son pulls on layers of snow clothes and heads outside to play in the small patch of common yard we share with the neighbors. His delight is tangible as he pelts snowballs towards the house and grins his eight-year-old-boy grin at my camera.

We move slowly through the day, watching the moody clouds give way to sunlight dancing across our first snow.

I put mulligatawny on the stove, thanks to the recommendation of a friend some months ago. The aromatic fragrance of root vegetables and curry fills the house.

This became one of my favorite meals the very first time I tasted it. We dip soft, warm naan in the broth and soak the warmth and comfort into our bones.

The sky grows dark so early. We close the blinds and migrate to the living room, near the glow of the Christmas tree. This is the first year I’m learning, really learning, about Advent.

I’m beginning to understand the tension between the darkness and light, the weariness and hope. How perfectly this time of year displays these very things — a weary world rejoices. Goodness, we are weary. But how we might rejoice.

My son loses steam as the day ebbs on. Soon, he’s snuggled against my shoulder. His throat hurts, he says.

Our snow day is a sick day after all. I wonder if we’ll sleep tonight.