I don't know how she knows

I don't know how she knows but she knows. 

"You look so sad Da," Che says last night, roller skating through the living room. 

I'm hunched over in a chair at the dinning room table, head in my hands, as Sarah prepares dinner after being away at work all day. 

She's bone dead tired too. 

Skating over, Che slams headfirst in my lap, crawls on me, sitting on me. 

Sarah watches us as she cooks. 

Later as I tuck her in for the night, Che hugs me tightly and says, "Sleep with me Da."

Smiling, loving it, I tell her I'll hold her tight in the morning, kiss her once more and turn out the light. 

The morning starts a little after midnight and I settle into dark hours of contemplation, prayer and Twitter. 

I'm off to the Mayo Clinic for a day of tests and a chemical cocktail today. Che has a field trip at school and Sarah has work deadlines that must be met and our lives to manage. 

I'm preoccupied, lost in music and my own thoughts, standing in the kitchen when I hear, "Da."

Rubbing sleep out of her eyes, staring at me from the sofa, clutching her blanket and "Baby", Che says, "I just want to be with you."

So we cuddle together in the dark, her head in my lap as she watches her IPad as I resume contemplation, prayers and scrolling.