Sometime in the lost black middle of the night Gwyn peeps and I stagger from my own bed into hers. The covers have slid down to her feet. I extract the stuffed menagerie and tuck us both in—I wrap us in this warmth that keeps the frosty night at bay. Gwyn’s body is a breathing comma. She returns to dark sleep.
For the minute or two of consciousness before I join her there, the soft rise and fall of her back presses up against me. She’s all heat. During the day she flings her energy about by jumping and talking and making dozens of paper dolls, but at night that energy silently radiates. I soak in her heat. It expands into the cave of our covers. In this vast frozen night, in this world of biting deadly cold, Gwyn’s heat is God’s heat. Or God’s heat is what we generate together, a refuge of silent, pulsing life. Continue reading