deep under a layer of blankets,
I hear him cry out
in his dark, cold room
at the end of the hall.
“Ya-Yuh? Ya-yuh!” he calls,
pausing to wait for his brother’s reply.
Answering silence is followed by thump, patter,
then the squeak of his door.
Half-way down the hall
the word, “Mommy” slips from his lips.
“What?” I call, still snuggled, waiting to hear
what will be required of me.
A drink of water?
A blanket straightened and tucked?
A song or a hand held in the dark?
“I love you,” he calls, then turns,
hurrying back to his warm bed.
Now I am awake and thinking
of his voice splitting the night
like an angel choir, the words,
“I love you” falling like snow
across an otherwise silent night.