Esme was lying on our bed when I came home from the hospital; I paused for a second as I opened the door, my hand still on the knob, and observed her. Her head rested lightly on the pillow, her hair spread out delicately on the pillow. Her hands were clasped together, resting softly under her cheek, and her legs, one on top of the other, were bent at the knee and clutched up to her-it was the cliché sleeping position. Her eyes were open, however, and she watched me with a timid smile on her lips. Had they not been open, I was sure that, if only for a second, I would've believed her to be asleep.
"Hello, darling," I called softly, moving into the room and shutting the door lightly behind me. She didn't stir-her eyes only followed me as I crossed the room to my side of the dresser. "How was your day?"
I heard her body shift as she turned toward me. I watched her as I took off my shoes and loosened my tie. "My day was fine. Slow. Yours?"
"The usual," I responded, emptying my pockets and placing everything on the wooden chest. When I turned back to her, her eyes were closed, and she looked like a sleeping angel.
"What are you thinking of?" I whispered; I didn't want to disturb her peaceful meditation, but I desperately wanted to know what was going on in that beautiful head of hers.
"I realized today how much I really missed dreaming." She sighed. I climbed up next to her and the shape of my body matched hers; our foreheads nearly touched.
"What do you miss about it?" I was still whispering-I couldn't break the mood.
"I miss letting my mind wander," she murmured, her eyes opening slowly. "I miss waking up every morning and struggling to remember my dreams."
"What kind of dreams?" I asked, and I gently caressed her jaw.
"I…I don't know. I can't remember anymore." She sighed again, morose.
"What would you dream about, if you could?" I brushed a lock of hair behind her ear, and as I pulled away she lightly touched my wrist; my hand stopped at her face, and my fingers cupped around her head, my thumb lightly rubbing circles on her cheekbone.
"I'd like to think I'd dream about you," she murmured, her smile growing slightly. "And about my son." Subtly, her eyes glanced over to the framed drawings of her son that Edward had drawn for her so long ago. "And maybe even about what our children would've looked like." The last sentence was spoken so softly, so gently, that I could've lost it had I not read her lips.
"I'm sorry," I could only whisper, but the look in her eyes showed me that she didn't find me at fault for anything-she knew that I would've gladly given her a dozen babies if it would've made her happy.
"They would've been beautiful," she breathed. "Brilliant blond-haired sons."
"And big-hearted, caramel-headed daughters."
Softly, our lips touched-nothing romantic, just soft, sad comfort. I pulled her closer to me, and I held her tightly.