sun turns the evening to rose

Reese meets me in the hallway before school, ready for our twice-a-week individual work. I kneel and gently ask her to take off her backpack and coat. As I speak, she suddenly freezes, tears welling in her eyes.

“Your voice is wrong,” she says, tone rising with distress. Baffled, I keep myself calm and steady, which is our usual way unless we are playing.

“Your voice is telling me you are upset,” she cries, pushing her palms toward me. “Why are you sad?” she yells.

Softly, I reach out to her.  “Reese, my voice is the same as always. I’m happy to see you.”

“No, no, no, no!” she repeats, growing louder. “Your voice is telling me that something is wrong. Stop using that voice. Bring your regular voice back.”

We are at a standstill in the hallway. She is sweating, and her winter hat is askew. Tears stream down her face. I control my expression but panic inside. I frantically search within myself. Was something different about me? Was she uncomfortable? Was there an issue at home?

“Reese,’ I say cheerfully, “I’m excited to hear about your new Warrior Cat drawings. Your mom told me they are fantastic, and you drew twelve characters!” Reece relaxes, drops her backpack, and sheds her coat as she hears about her favorite book series and art accomplishments.

She joyfully claps her hands together. “How’d you know that?” Reece throws her body into my arms and presses the side of her head into mine. Then she rolls her face across my forehead until our eyes meet.

“You are my teacher again,” Reece breathes, placing her hand on my arm. “You aren’t sounding sad anymore.”

“I never was,” I lie, pushing back the painful awareness that this child feels deeply enough to burrow beneath my consciousness. My tears run inward, making me swallow hard.

—

The night before, I sleep on my office floor. It hadn’t been my plan, but near midnight my body won’t transition from the office chair to the bed in the room next door. I stand, and my knees buckle. I place my hands on the soft rug. Instead of pushing up to stand, I slide my arms forward until my shoulders touch the floor, then tuck behind me until I am in a limp child’s pose. I breathe in the synthetic carpet, unfurl my legs, and lie flat.

Hours later, I wake. I am not sure if my body exists. I wonder if I am just a pair of eyes. I try to focus on the books across from me, but all I see are shadows. Flat against the floor, I find comfort. My hands feel the carpet beneath my palms.

—

I turn my head and look beneath the bed. I smell my father’s shoe polish. The faint trace of my mother’s perfume. I hear her cough slightly in her sleep and the creak of my dad shifting. I touch the wood bedframe and finger the cotton sheet. They don’t know that I’m at their bedside. I’m there but hidden, my body halfway beneath them, wrapped in a comforter. I am there, fading into the carpet, into the night, taking what I need without needing too much.  I am stealing a moment of closeness amid the darkness. I will wake before dawn and return to bed, the sheets sharply cool against my skin.

My awareness hones. The moments blend—comfort, carpet, office floor, childhood home. The solitude of close but not too close, layers of sadness beneath soft wrappings. Of invisibility. Cheek to carpet. Child’s cheek against mine. A knowing and then a retreat.