Henry Dreams

A story for us to remember when we are old. Some of this is true. Some of this is not. 

I.

Henry is kissing my back as I lay on my stomach. We are lost in the dark, whispering and laughing. The bed sheets are cool and smooth against my skin and a dark blue midnight that slips away as he pulls it down to my feet. He runs a finger along the arch of my foot and I laugh softly. "Beautiful," he whispers, and he sits back on his knees, behind me, looking at me. I smile and turn my head to look back at him. My eyes are two dark moons. His are green and growing darker. He brushes my hair off of my back and places his hand on my neck, before he leans down to kiss my mouth. We taste each other slowly before his lips move to my ear and then to my neck, eliciting soft moans as I stretch. Henry travels south along my shoulder blades, mapping a course with lips and tongue and teeth. His hands follow suit, waking my muscles. “Don’t move," he tells me, and I feel the warmth from his tongue, as he draws soft circles lazily over my back, his thumbs circling down and up then outward from my spine. He reaches the small of my back and kisses it softly. I hear him sigh reverently. He nips at the top of one cheek, cupping both with his hands. His palms move from right to left and I feel him part and lift my cheeks before he runs his thumbs down between them, to tease me with them until I am wet for him to dive into with his tongue. “Mine,” he says. “Mine.” "Yes," I say quietly, as though it were an admission. "Yours."

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Henry Dreams are usually a sign that he's about to resurface. I haven't had one of them in a long time. 4 years ago, and one week beyond that, when I was pregnant with Jane. He haunted me in my last week of pregnancy with her, and then again a day before Beth was born. Beth is only 3 months into her life and now here he is again, interrupting my exhaustion. Teasing me then leaving me. Henry is an old bruise that never fades completely. The dream leaves me edgy. I roll out of bed and make my way to the bathroom. I try to shake him from my head, but his eyes linger as I wash my face, scrubbing a bit too hard. I'm not sure now if they were laughing with me or at me. "Hmm," I wonder aloud. "Why now?" But I know why. I am kidding myself. It is all an act. This was long overdue. 

The house is quiet, except for the sounds of my bare feet, and the lazy groans from a tired dog named Atticus, who has been guarding Beth and I nightly, and who follows me from bed to nursery to kitchen to couch to bed all night. James took the girls for a morning walk so that I could recover the lost hours of sleep. 

"Morning, Atticus, time to go potty." Atticus groans and stretches from his bed, his long body bowing down then up before four large paws and a long black tail follow me into the kitchen, where he watches and waits for me to open the door to the deck. 

"Okay, no barking, it's too early for that," I tell him. He sniffs the air, pads out onto the deck and surveys his kingdom, before bounding down the stairs, leaping onto the grass to announce his arrival to every blade of grass. 

"Every single time," I smile to myself, before moving through the motions of the morning. Food and water for Atticus; food and a ridiculously oversized jug of water and a cup of tea for me. The tea promises to produce more milk from my breasts. I find it to be bullshit, but my friend gifted me a box and it tastes comforting, so it is now a part of the routine. I sit down at the kitchen table and hook myself up to the somewhat portable milking station and stare out through the double French doors. I am uncomfortable and frustrated by the small results that will follow, but I will invest the 30 minutes on each breast to get a total of 2-4 ounces of liquid gold for my baby and will supplement the rest with formula. I fought it with Jane, but am more accepting of reality with Beth. I frown at the flanges as they pulse and squeeze me like a cow, and try to ignore the memories that are digging themselves out of the grave that I had so carefully buried them in 12 years ago. Atticus paws at the back door and stares at me. I welcome him in with a friendly pat on his head and an ear scratch or two before he goes about his business. I munch on breakfast while I lose myself for a bit in my thoughts. The May morning is mild. Only a slight wind and thin white clouds in the sky. I watch my wind chime hanging over the deck. A gift from Jane from a previous Mother's Day. The green fairy that sits atop it is gently turning about. A quiet warning. I should heed it. I won't. But I should.