There are some things that feed the hunger in my heart. Like the way the clock ticks at four o’clock in the morning while I am still lying cocooned in the warmth of my bed while beside me I hear the sonorous sound of my husband’s breathing. The air is fed with our breath, with the light radiating from my open eyes, with the sound of footsteps clambering down from a bed next door.

Creak of floorboards and a warm head thrusts in under the covers.

“Move over, Mom.”

Six year old voice.

And the room descends into quiet while the sounds of our breathing colour the darkness.

Here, in the nest of arms, in this tangleweed of blankets and sheets, my son sleeps. The day is a few hours away.