He sleeps. Finally. The house stills and we tiptoe around, closing doors softly and whispering our words to each other. I watch the clock, wondering if his body will wake him again, wretched, teary, to reach for the ice cream pail sitting on the floor beside the couch where he rests.


Its illness upon illness this winter, days piling up like the heavy snow drifts outside my door.

Through the window I see the snow blowing white across my yard, another storm. I cough and cough, and I take a vitamin c tablet but I have to admit the cold I’m fighting has taken me over. I cough into my sleeve and not into my hand, the way we are told to do it now. Quietly as I can though, so as not to wake him.

A tall boy wanders in and out of the room, restless. I’ll go out and check on that last pregnant goat, he says. Needing something to do, and I understand the itch he is feeling.

Dad naps, and the other boy retreats to the basement, hiding from the germs.

I sink a little. Tired right out, you know. And yet, even weary weak I know he is there. I feel him, around me. I do. And I know I am not alone. I rest in that. I sink into that.

Sunday eases into evening, and for today church is this room and prayer.