My son has buried himself again. In the curtained morning dark, I can barely detect his sleeping frame, and I step lightly to the foot of his bed to pat the rumpled duvet in the hopes of finding a bird boned ankle or knee, the reassuring lumps that confirm he’s there.

I live in fear that he will disappear, that he’ll be carried away by some unknown and irrational threat—an accident, illness, abduction—unspeakable horror visions perpetuated by my anxious brain. These images appear in the sweetest moments: his little hand reaches for mine, and I think, remember this, and I remind myself to breathe. In for four, out for four, again and again until I’m back, holding my son’s hand as we walk to school.

This morning, the pillow is over his head and he’s so still that for a moment, I panic. I rush forward and place a hand on his back, holding my breath while I wait for the steady rise and fall. He starts, sits up. We blink at each other, as if in code. I’m here.

We’re safe.

And for now, it’s enough.