The naptime ritual I never taught anyone

I didn’t write it down, but today I held a child’s hand through a dream. She was tangled in a blanket like a fossil in clay, and her breath slowed—just once—like the world exhaled with her. I didn’t fix anything. I just sat there, shoulder to shoulder, watching the dust move in the sunbeam. It wasn’t about sleep. It was about the quiet between heartbeats, the kind that feels sacred because no one else sees it. I’ve been doing this for twelve years, and still, it surprises me how much love fits inside a silence.