Laying there, contorted and tangled in the sheets, he dreams.

Thoughts are similar, right? They’re intermittent and gives us a quick glance at the past and future. Treading ever so light between realities, we submit ourselves to be consumed in that world of possibility.

While giggling in the muff of his pillow, I can’t help but ask, “What is he dreaming about?” Is he the artist he desires to be? Has he found a game other than Minecraft to play and enjoy? Did he bring in another rock from outside because it was cold? To know him, I must think like him—random but methodical.

For the past seven years, I’ve watched him sleep soundly. Each time, though redundant, I question:

“Am I raising him correctly?”

“Can he see through my smiles?”

“Will I let him down again?”

Hearing him snore and toss around, that sleeping child snaps me out of those thoughts and back to reality. My days of hanging upside down and getting scolded have now been passed on to him. What other things will he get from me? The only thing I can think of is the road ahead. It will be bumpy and a questionable one, but I know that he’ll give me the strength to believe in him and his dreams. His love is something else and always puts a smile on me.

Damn. His body is starting to straighten out.

A weak, “Good morning Daddy.”, ends my time with loneliness. Taking another sip of coffee, he gets up to give me a hug. Another chance to dream is about to begin.



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