When I was younger, my mother would often leave me at home alone. My older sister entered school earlier than I did. And my mother would often drive her to school while I still slept. When I’d awake-often before my mother returned-I’d feel scared. So, i would crouch under our small bedside table. I would stay there until my mother came back home.

Maybe, I thought it was a good hiding spot. Maybe, I thought it was good protection-after all, I had always been a cautious child-though maybe, I thought it felt like my mother was still there. Still in bed at night, hopelessly trying to pass on her warm heat to my freezing hands and feet. The peaceful quiet of these moments lulling me to sleep. That maybe, I was still breathing in her warm scent and could still wrap myself around her and keep her close. Us together. It felt perfect.

But these nights were really the only happy times I spent with my mother.

Mornings were a whole different story.

After these warm nights, my mother would always be running around. Either cleaning the house or getting ready to go to her next job. All the while, stress radiating through the house and making everyone upset.

Those chaotic mornings... I don’t think I understood them back then; I still don’t think I entirely do.

But

But maybe

But maybe, this is why I loved so much that small bedside table on those cold mornings.