One More Minute

Those quiet moments, stolen for yourself. Sometimes they happen at 3 am when your old body is stiff and remembers that it wasn’t made for in-the-floor sleepovers with your nearly 11 year old daughter. Hips that ache and think perhaps we should have more carpet padding. Eyes that barely open because the contacts in them have dried out while you slept. Once comfortable pants that now seem to be trying to cut you in half. And yet, each time you wake up to shift, you chose not to get up. You decide that maybe you’ll stay a little longer. You do have a comfy bed of your own, with a husband to warm you. “Just one more minute” you bargain with your hips, because you know that soon enough you won’t be invited to these sleepovers just for two.

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