A Memory of Lasts

I don't want to wish away the way you sneak into our bed in the middle of the night.  I remember that's how it was with potty training.  Every morning I woke up wishing you would have a dry night. Then one day you did. Then you had another. And another. . .until our middle of the night meetings were a mere memory.

I know that's what's going to happen with our bed.
So every morning I wake up.  I see you there. I smile.
I'm trying to hold on to the fact that my baby girl still needs us.
Our bed is her safe place.
And that's just fine for now because one day this will be gone.

I won't have a foot kicking my head or my sheets all twisted.
Nor will I have a small palm on my face, a warm body nestled into mine, a spray of curls across my pillow.
And I will be sad.

So I will let her linger longer.