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Description
It smelled of rain, probably because I left the window open and let the air into our little box of a house for once. Rain falls, and I remember my mother's voice - "Where rain falls, the angels are lonely."

Tonight, though, that angel is on its own even in loneliness, because I'm so accompanied, more than ever before, as I hug you to my chest.

"Mama!" you laugh, squirming but not really trying to get away. At four years, you're "grown up," but not too grown up to run into Mama's arms at the end of a long day. "Mama, why's the window open? See, the sill's getting wet."

"I wanted the rain in our home, miri," I answer, running my fingers through your hair; to the part on top of your head to the soft, slightly curled end just above your shoulders. "Outside it's so beautiful, with the wind and water. Don't you want our house to be a part of that?"

You look at me, not really understanding what I am saying, but liking the sound of the words. "Okay, Mama, if you say so." I laugh quietly and nod, picking you up to carry you into the kitchen. I fill a pan with water and put it on the old stove.

"Cocoa!" you squeal happily. "Cocoa for me!" Your eyes are wide and beautiful, the eyes of your bapa, brown with a little skin over the edge to form an almond shape. While I wait for the water to boil, I sing folk songs from my childhood, bouncing you on my hip the entire time. Once I see the first bubbles make their way to the top of the water and break free, I pour in chocolate chips.

"Mama," you say suddenly as I'm mixing the chocolate and water, "why don't we have milk for our cocoa? My friend Aya has milk in her cocoa." I look at you, a little embarrassed. You always took our lack of things that your classmates have in stride, but once in a while you're curious. I don't want to tell you that we're poor. "We can have water, miri, it tastes good still," is all I reply. You nod, satisfied.

Since we don't have milk, I decide to splurge a little and dip into the cinammon and nutmeg, sprinkling them into the now bubbling chocolate mixture. You watch with a smile on your face, no doubt anticipating the drink that'll surely make you sleepy enough to crawl into your bed.

Fifteen minutes later, after you've had your cocoa, I carry you to your room and put you down on the pink bed sheets I'd gotten at the store earlier that week. You oblige to lie down, hugging your special toy frog, but then sit up against your pillow. "Good-night kiss, Mama."

I lean down and give you a kiss on the nose, and you giggle. Then I give you a kiss on the lips, another on the forehead. This was our ritual. You gave me a kiss back. "Night night! Love you Mama!"

I smile and stand up to go to my own room. "Love you more."

Description
It smelled of rain, probably because I left the window open and let the air into our little box of a house for once. Rain falls, and I remember my mother's voice - "Where rain falls, the angels are lonely."

Tonight, though, that angel is on its own even in loneliness, because I'm so accompanied, more than ever before, as I hug you to my chest.

"Mama!" you laugh, squirming but not really trying to get away. At four years, you're "grown up," but not too grown up to run into Mama's arms at the end of a long day. "Mama, why's the window open? See, the sill's getting wet."

"I wanted the rain in our home, miri," I answer, running my fingers through your hair; to the part on top of your head to the soft, slightly curled end just above your shoulders. "Outside it's so beautiful, with the wind and water. Don't you want our house to be a part of that?"

You look at me, not really understanding what I am saying, but liking the sound of the words. "Okay, Mama, if you say so." I laugh quietly and nod, picking you up to carry you into the kitchen. I fill a pan with water and put it on the old stove.

"Cocoa!" you squeal happily. "Cocoa for me!" Your eyes are wide and beautiful, the eyes of your bapa, brown with a little skin over the edge to form an almond shape. While I wait for the water to boil, I sing folk songs from my childhood, bouncing you on my hip the entire time. Once I see the first bubbles make their way to the top of the water and break free, I pour in chocolate chips.

"Mama," you say suddenly as I'm mixing the chocolate and water, "why don't we have milk for our cocoa? My friend Aya has milk in her cocoa." I look at you, a little embarrassed. You always took our lack of things that your classmates have in stride, but once in a while you're curious. I don't want to tell you that we're poor. "We can have water, miri, it tastes good still," is all I reply. You nod, satisfied.

Since we don't have milk, I decide to splurge a little and dip into the cinammon and nutmeg, sprinkling them into the now bubbling chocolate mixture. You watch with a smile on your face, no doubt anticipating the drink that'll surely make you sleepy enough to crawl into your bed.

Fifteen minutes later, after you've had your cocoa, I carry you to your room and put you down on the pink bed sheets I'd gotten at the store earlier that week. You oblige to lie down, hugging your special toy frog, but then sit up against your pillow. "Good-night kiss, Mama."

I lean down and give you a kiss on the nose, and you giggle. Then I give you a kiss on the lips, another on the forehead. This was our ritual. You gave me a kiss back. "Night night! Love you Mama!"

I smile and stand up to go to my own room. "Love you more."