The silence so deep, I hear the showerhead drip splatter in the upstairs bath.
Laying aside my bags, my mind spins with outlandish scenarios suggesting possible dreadful, fearful locations of my darling and our infant Lucinda.
Fingernails dig into my hand heel. Sweat beads my brow and dampens my crotch accentuating my stomach’s fearsome twist.
The fresh door-glass rattle illuming Karen’s lilting call, “Carrado, look, honey, a tree,” draining my anxiety.
Our embrace enfolds Lucinda’s pouch, our synchronization, “Merry Christmas.”