“a house doesn’t make a home…”

~u2

I find myself curled up on the end of Rick’s bed, watching his every breath. He is sick with a fever and moaning a little like the the wind that is rushing through the trees outside. The trees are moaning like a ghost, the la llorna type of wait that chills you to the bone. the fog brushes through the sky, leaving the windows damp in the process of running by.

But my baby is sick. Even though he is no longer a baby, but a small of of three, when he gets sick my heart just stops. I wait with the night, waiting on each breath. I hold him when he cries out. I whisper sweet nothings when he moans. I stay awake, at rapt attention, into the early hours of the morning.

There is something about sitting up with Rick that makes me ponder home. When he is away, I feel empty. When he is here, I am content and happy. when he is away, the house is silent. it’s not my home. home is filled with laughter, silliness, conversation and love. When he is gone, it’s empty.
This is not my home. My home is with Rick. Where ever he is, my heart is with him. when he hurts, I hurt too. when he laughs, i laugh. when he loves, I feel like my heart will explode with joy.

but here is the time where my heart breaks and every shadow in the house is a new stranger and a new cold danger. It’s haunting. and the moaning wind and the settling of the house doesn’t help. All I can do is sit and guard my baby, late into the night, with his angels watching over him and try to keep the monsters at bay.

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