Every morning Avery wakes early, gets himself out of bed, opens the door to the room he shares with his brothers, scoots down the hall, opens the door to Tom’s and my bedroom, and climbs up into bed between us.
He’s very quiet; so quiet that I barely notice his arrival. Until he falls back asleep again, in the middle of the big bed, covers pulled up tight beneath his chin, and he begins to snore.
It’s a strong, clear, loud sound. It’s rhythmic and predictable; if I wanted to, I could probably fall back asleep. But I don’t. Instead, I listen to the sound of Avery’s breathing. Here is a boy who once, a while ago, would sometimes forget to breathe, a condition called apnea of prematurity. Here is a boy whom I spent late nights praying over as I held him, please please let him breathe. And here is a boy, now breathing so strongly beside me in the early dawn.
The sound of Avery’s snoring is, to me, the most beauiful sound in the world and I don’t want to sleep through it. Instead, I listen, and watch the light change outside, and think about how far we’ve come, and I say a new prayer: thank you.