Man of the House

He slides into bed on the right side beside the window. He needs the fresh air to sleep. He lies peacefully. The pillow cradles his head as his bright, blue eyes are hidden behind heavy lids.

There have been various changes in him in fifteen years. The corners of his eyes are accented with wrinkles, and the smooth skin of youth is covered with stubble. The long hair that once touched his shoulders is now cropped close and sparse against his scalp. An army of grey hair invades his dark soldiers of yesterday, conquering more territory with each passing year. Instead of staying up until dawn, he turns in early with complaints of stiff joints and aching muscles that remind him he’s middle aged.
Even though some things have changed, there are others that will remain the same. His abdomen still rises and falls in rhythm with grumbling snores and sleepy mumbles. It is a soothing melody and a feeling of peace and assurance. The place next to him in bed will always be warm and inviting. His arms, no matter how aged, will forever feel like a fortress, a safe haven to relax and to dream. His long legs will remain the perfect hide-a-way for chilly feet.

Tossing and turning, he pulls the blankets to one side, but it’s not selfishness, only the restlessness of an overworked mind. Is his mind filled with worries even as he sleeps? What does he see? Is it soothing, peaceful or perhaps disturbing and scary?
The blankets are returned momentarily after he awakes, realizes he has stolen the covers, and sleepily shares the blankets along with soft kisses and whispers of love.

He softly creeps into the kitchen for a midnight snack, and voices a few muffled choice words as his toes collide with a mislaid laundry basket. He’s unaware his clumsiness has awakened his family, but they are accustomed to his nightly treks and immediately return to their dreams. His presence is their security because he is a husband, a father, and will always be the man of the house.