My daughter is asleep on my face. Cheek to cheek, all smooshed and drooly.

And then she moves, her small face pressing into my throat and slowing the blood flow.

Her breathing is loud and in my ear.

But I don't move an inch. She is sleeping, she is peaceful.

Her day was long and full of love, her toys are everywhere.

Which is where they will stay until tomorrow.

I cry. Just a few tears. I hate things near my face, on top of me.

But her, I love the weight as she rests, as she simply is.

She moves again. Just over a tiny bit.

I cry again. She is easier to put in bed now, and I need a shower.

I have to move, but I don't.

Just a few more minutes. Just a little bit longer.

To be here, with her, present, even though she will forget, I won't.