Ben is playing his guitar. He's sitting at the table while the children finish their dinner and he's playing from memory, his head thrown back, eyes closed. He's taking a nap. Such is life here. Soon he'll be played out and he'll move to a more comfortable chair and he'll motion for me to join him and I'll run and curl up in his arms and fall asleep with my head on his heartbeat. When I wake up at sunrise he will sleep on for hours still.
These precious moments are like oxygen when we have been drowning in waves of obligation.
