Bound

It is our ritual every night, one that I'm secretly, fiercely protective of.  I turn out the lights and turn on the white noise, static that sounds remotely like running water if you close your eyes. Sitting in the darkness, I bring her to me, squirming and restless.  She latches, and there is a sudden, momentary pain, such as we often feel when we give ourselves to the things we love.  

Sometimes, my mind wanders aimlessly, randomly recounting the day.  Other times I focus solely on her.  As she settles in, her body grows warm.  The heat circulates though us, coursing from me to her and back again.  We are united by that most primal connection of need and providence.

Most nights, she finishes and I continue getting her ready for bed.  But every so often, she falls asleep in my arms, cheek resting against the pillow.  Those times, I sit as still as I can, studying the curve of her face, the soft shock of her hair, illuminated by the eerie blue glow of the alarm clock.  In those moments of peace, her face takes on an ageless quality and I can imagine, no, see her at 5 years, 10, 16.  And as I watch her sleep, I know that we are bound - by the familial connection between us, by the history of all the mothers and daughters that came before us, but mostly, by our futures - laid out endlessly ahead of us, and intertwined for all the time to come.