It's 2AM.
Darkness has crept into every nook and crevice of the little house you used to share with your elderly mother. Dreams have taken hold of you in your bed. It's a twin sized bed; you've no need for anything bigger.
The crying starts at 2:01. As it started at 1:01. And 12:01. And would probably continue to start every hour from now.
A groan come from deep in your chest as the high-pitched wails from the other room rip you from your dreams once again. The thought passes through you that you could ignore it. You could grab some ear plugs and just go back to bed. But the thought of your mother watching you from the heavens with a disapproving shake of the head twists your heart and your feet slowly swing off the bed, toes touching the carpet as you pull your aching, tiered body up.
You throw on your robe as you trudge out of your bedroom, leaning against the wall as you tie the sash around your waist. You shake yourself when you find yourself falling asleep and push yourself off the sheetrock, feet noiselessly moving across the carpet.
The door to your mother's room is agar. It's not her room anymore, but you still have trouble thinking of it as anyone else's. It wasn't that long ago that she was the one waking you up at ungodly hours of the morning, running the vacuum cleaner or firing up the stove down in the kitchens. Old women had funny ideas about what the most appropriate time to do chores was.
You push the door open further, padding toward the source of the wailing. You stop by the crib where your mother's bed used to bed, looking down at your new baby. Your mouth twitches as you try to be angry that he's woken you up three times tonight, but you can't help but smile, reaching into his crib and picking him up.
"Shh… John, shh…" you bounce the boy, patting his back.
When his crying persisted, you carry him downstairs, flicking on the kitchen light. You hold the weepy infant in one arm, opening the refrigerator and riffling around for a bottle. John's tiny hands ball around your robe, burying his face in the soft fabric, hiding from the kitchen light.
You pop a bottle into the microwave, bouncing John again. He was so little in your strong arms. You fell in love with the baby more and more each day. Your little angel, fallen from the heavens and into your arms without any warning or permission.
The microwave beeps and the tiny angel wails louder, putting your robe into a vice grip, or as close as hands so small can get. You kiss his forehead and reach over to get the bottle from the microwave, testing it on your wrist before leaning against the counter and giving it to John. The infant fussed but eventually accepted the teat, sucking happily on the warm milk.
You kiss his forehead and sigh, lolling your head back to stare up at the ceiling. You wonder if your mother can see you now. You wondering if she's laughing at you from up there in that odd way of hers. Saying "See, sonny? Not so easy, is it?" You smile a bit. No, Mom. It's not.
John is done eating and yawns, resting against your chest, drifting off to sleep once more. You sigh, setting down the bottle and turn off the kitchen light, taking him back up to his bedroom and put him down in his crib. You watch him for a moment. He's so beautiful, so perfect… you're little son.
You kiss his forehead one more time before dragging yourself back to bed, curling up under the sheets and falling asleep.
It's 3:01 when you wake up next.