The lines that bind

She is little, fragile. Her skin pale and loose on her body, trying to detach it seems. Her eyes are dark and round and lost, looking for something that is not there, looking to recognize the path that led her here. Wondering how to get out.

I sit on her bed, hold her hand. She curves her fingers around my own, a light grip, but holding on. We talk. Or I talk. She asks questions and I answer in detail trying to give her part of my day, part of the outside world which she can only view from her bedroom window. She's clear-headed tonight, following my words, asking more questions. Her other hand carelessly petting Cheyenne's back. Here we are, relaxed and talking, as if we had mixed up a batch of twilight for ourselves, listening to the cicadas on a lazy summer evening.

Her eyes grow heavy and she tells me she's tired. I rest my head on her leg, tell her I'll stay with her a while. Cheyenne sighs. I close my eyes.

Hours later I awake, realizing without opening my eyes that I'm in her bed, in my father's spot, my head upon his pillow. I can feel him here, right here. Reaching over to her, I find her hand and hold it in mine. For one moment, we are together, him, her, me. For one moment he is here, and he never left because I now fill this space where he once was and we glide together through the night. I don't dare open my eyes, the moment so shimmering and rare, listening to rhythm of her breathing, feeling the warmth of his presence, feeling the life of my heart beat. Three people connected through his pillow, through our hands, and through my heart. Him. Her. Me.