early morning

Pushing through the soft fuzz of the baby monitor, my daughter’s cries jolts me awake: “Daddy, daddy, daddy…”

I’m up and across the hall before I have a chance to clear the mist from my head. Standing over her crib, I pat her back and tell her it’s okay. Once she settles down I head back to bed.

I make the mistake of checking the time. 5am.

Just enough time to slip back to sleep before it’s time to get ready for work.

My wife curls around my back — familiar and comforting, this shape we make together.

Just as I’m drifting off, I hear my daughter again, fainter this time: “Daddy, daddy, daddy…”

I raise my head and listen.

Silence.

Then, again: “Daddy, daddy, daddy…”

I sit up, my wife asking me what’s wrong.

I can hear her calling faintly, as though from a distance . . . as though she’s moving further away.

“Daddy, daddy, daddy…”

The light on the monitor is dim. No sound but the white noise buzz.

“Daddy, daddy, daddy…”

Faster now across the hall, at her crib in an instance.

She lies there asleep, content. Safe.

I sit on the edge of the bed, trying to ignore the faint cry that still pierces in the air, just barely audible.

“Daddy, daddy, daddy…”

My wife asks me what’s wrong. I shake my head, embarrassed and apologetic for disturbing her sleep. She puts up with so much of my insanity. Too much.

“Daddy, daddy, daddy…”

I get up and go to the little window, just open a crack to let in the hint of spring.

Outside a bird calls, lonely in the early morning dark: “Daddy, daddy, daddy…”

I shake my head, kiss my wife, and head downstairs to get ready for work.