She’s 11 but still begs me to stay until she falls asleep. She can’t stop thinking about tornadoes—swirling gusts that uproot whole towns far away from where we live. I hesitate. The dog needs to go out, leftovers need refrigerating, emails need replies. But her need calls loudest, so I lie down. Immediately, I feel the weight of her arm on my chest. She’s 11 and has her whole adulthood to stay awake at night counting fears. This human, usually so desperate to grow up and apart, matches her breath to mine, allowing our rhythm to sway her to sleep.
Ruth Osorio is a professor of Women's and Gender Studies and an emerging creative writer. She lives in coastal Virginia.