It Wasn't

Bering and Wells - Sing me something sweet to get me by.

Day 21 - Doing Something Sweet

You press a soft kiss to a small forehead, pulling up the blanket and tucking it beneath her chin. You study her sleeping face, the light from the hall laying a band of warm illumination across her cheek. "Sweet dreams, darling girl." Without speaking, you and Myka switch places. You approach the second bed in the room, the second sleeping occupant. "Sleep well, my love," you murmur to him, kissing the dimple in his left cheek.

She is already waiting just outside the door. You turn as you reach her to survey the peaceful sight once more. Both children fell asleep almost as soon as their tired heads hit their pillows, exhausted from a day playing with Uncle Pete and Aunt Claudia. They are gone, off into dream worlds you are not privy to, somewhere with dragons and magical faeries, and hot air balloons, and forests full of wonder and delight. Far away lands adults can only vaguely remember in that half-real, hazy state between awake and dreaming. But they have slipped into that land easily, without fuss or bother, their tiny minds so open to imagination, so quick to accept fantasy as reality.

Her arms snake around your waist and she rests her chin upon your shoulder. You lean back into her easy embrace, giving a grateful sigh for her strong hold.

"I could watch them sleep forever," you admit.

"Mmm," she agrees. "Me, too." Silence descends, laying itself over you as a warm blanket on a November night when you sleep with the window cracked because the air smells crisp with undertones of snow. You watch two small chests rise and fall in the mismatched rhythm of deep slumber. "Did you see the news tonight?" she asks.

You nod silently, feeling her squeeze you tighter. It was not pleasant. You'd forced yourself not to turn it off, not to turn away in horror or disgust.

"It could have been them," she whispers, her voice cracking.

Your heart constricts in your chest, your ribs tightening around your lungs in a straightjacket hold. She has voiced the thought that has been running through your mind all evening. It could have. Yes. It so easily could have been them. Two thousand miles away, yet close enough for you to consider never letting them out of your sight again. But, "It wasn't." You make your voice sound firm and sure. "It wasn't," you repeat, spinning to face her. "It wasn't." You kiss her, light and sweet, reassuring.

There are tears in her sage colored eyes, glinting in the hall light, trembling, but refusing to fall.

"Helena," and your name leaves her lips as a plea.

"It wasn't them, darling. They are safe. You see," you face them again. "Our children are safe." Your children. Yes. Your delightful, intelligent, curious children.

"And tomorrow," you murmur, "Cora will rush her way into our room bright and early at half past five, waking us up with a horrible cacophony of sound that should not be possible from a singular throat. And E will insist on an extra, overlarge dollop of syrup on his pancakes. And so will Peter," you add fondly. "And we will go to work while Uncle Steve pulls babysitting duty. And you will insist on coming home for lunch, and I will moan that it's a horribly long way to go for a sandwich, but secretly I will be just as pleased to spend an hour peering at whatever creepy, crawly thing Cora's managed to catch, and reminding Ethan that Trailer is not a horse. And we will tear ourselves away, back to the Warehouse, knowing all the while that the real endless wonder is here, in this house. And we'll have dinner, and read them a story, and tuck them into bed. And then we will watch them sleep, much as we are doing now, bemoaning the fact that they are too perfect for words. It will be an absolutely wonderful day."

"So long as Pete isn't in charge of dinner and no artifacts decide to cause trouble halfway across the world," she is quick to amend.

You laugh gaily, quietly, and knock on the wooden doorframe in response.

"You've got it all planned out, don't you," she teases, but the tears have disappeared from her eyes and her smile is real.

"Mostly," you agree. "I like to have a plan, my love."

"I know you do." But she looks at your children once more, her face growing somber. "Can we do it, Helena? Can we keep them safe?"

"All we can do is teach them, darling," the answer falls quickly from your lips. "Guide them. Love them. That is how we protect them." You do not mention that there are events way beyond your control. That life isn't lived according to a schedule written out the night before and placed next to your breakfast cereal bowl on the kitchen table by some motherly figure wearing an apron and a too-cheery smile each morning. You do not speak about the pain or the heartache waiting just around the corner. The missed steps in the dark. The stubbed toes that are sure to occur. You do not speak of guns or artifacts, bombs, hate letters, words hurled at one another to be cruel and evil.

You look at your children, and you think of all the love you have to offer them. Enough to fill a thousand mountain streams, a trillion bajillion oceans, as E would say. You think of the people who give hugs instead of hurts, the power of easily offered gratitude, of impromptu dances in the living room, and messages of acceptance uttered silently with easy handshakes and freely given advice.

You think of the absolute awe in your son's eyes when he saw the firetrucks in town last month, the way his face got serious and determined and he turned to you, tugged on your hand, and said, 'I'm gonna be a firefighter someday, H.' 'Oh, yes,' you'd replied, amused. 'I'm gonna help people,' he responded, fiercely. And you had been unable to do anything other than believe him, your entire being swelling with pride. You think of the people who spend their entire lives helping others without asking for a thing in return. You think of the woman you saw planting flowers in her yard last week. And the man who always sneaks Cora a piece of candy at the grocery store checkout line, giving her a quiet and kind smile as if it is their secret.

You take her hand in yours and lead her from the room, looking back once more over your shoulder. Your children are alive and well and beautiful and innocent. You squeeze her fingers, and you do not think about the news, you only see this moment. Here. Now. Her, in the soft light of the hallway lamp. Your children. Peaceful and perfect. Your family. Safe, protected, wondrous. "All we can do is love them," you repeat. "And hope that it is enough."