It is cold, and so we are nestled in close together. It is night, and so there is no way to tell which of us stirred first, waking the other. It is dark, and so it is hard to see much except for two huge liquid almond eyes staring into my own. It is quiet, and so her soft preverbal murmur of love is clear to motherhoned ears. It is still, and so her broadening smile and awakening limbs stir the sleep-heavy air.
It is also 4.30 in the morning. Go back to sleep, child.
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