The orange glow of the street light shines through the gap in the bedroom curtains. A taxi pulls up outside, it’s rear doors open and out pour two late night revellers. Noisily, they stumble through gates and fumble for keys whilst shushing and giggling. A phone beeps, a lock is opened and the revellers disappear behind a slammed door, returning the street to it’s late night still.
Elodie stirs momentarily in her cot.
I hold my breath half expecting to hear her tired, staccato cry. She turns, rolls onto her back and her tiny chest begins to rise and fall once more, accompanied by the quiet purr of her soft breathing.
I relax back into my pillow.
In the middle of the bed, between my husband and I, Ethan lies with his right leg wrapped around my waist and his fingers unconsciously twirling my hair as he slumbers. His sleep is punctuated with bursts of movement and mumbled words as dreams spill from his unconscious and leave him in that half awake limbo in between.
His Daddy, the tallest of us all, is afforded an inch or two of mattress to cling onto at the far side of the bed. Despite the precarious position in which he finds himself he manages to sleep deeply and is not roused by the stirrings of the children, myself, nor the street outside. His snores gradually build to a crescendo, he coughs, scratches his head, and the cycle repeats, and repeats.
I lie awake. Ears ringing with each rhythmical breath and murmur. Creating a nocturnal lullaby that cannot coax me to sleep. Listening to the low buzz called silence that will eventually bring the dawn.