Life: Interlude

"I'll be gone when you wake up. Goodnight and I love you."

"Come here," he says and I come to him. He reaches out small hands and wraps them around the strings of my belt hanging down from my waist. Once. Twice. He wraps them around and around so that his hands are covered in black. I lean against the weight a little to relieve the pain in my back. "You're not goin."

I tell him I don't want to go. I tell him I'd rather stay here and fight kobolds, knit rugs, play Sorry and Rumikub and read books. I tell him our things are still there and I have to go. I have to get them out. He doesn't let me go. He repeats what he said. You're not goin.

I am holding syrup. I pretend I'm going to pour the syrup on his stomach. I tell him he must let go or else. He watches the amber drop roll along the plastic container towards the lip. It hangs from edge. He lets go and I jump away. I tell him I love him and goodnight. He rolls over so his grandmother can stroke his hair and tell him Bible stories until he falls asleep.

And I will be gone in the morning.