I’m taking the chance in the quiet of this morning to admire my newest wrinkles, when a freshly-woken, rumpled little person tugs my hand and pulls me back to my bedroom. Wordlessly, she motions I should return to bed. I am quickly joined by her warmth, which curves itself into my body, nuzzling her way under my chin. I am chronically aware that these moments with her, just breathing, although a daily occurrence, can be rescinded at any moment now.
“Are you always going to want to cuddle?”
“Even when you’re 14 and possibly taller than me?”
“Will you still be my mother?”
“Well, then, yes, I’ll still want to cuddle.”
Please let these words be true.