To scoot in the middle of our bed, after Donna died, was to inhabit sacred space. I can still feel her there sometimes, and certainly think of her there if I migrate too close to the middle.
"I'm too tired. I. Need. To. Sleep." I collapse (delicately) over my daughter. I feign magnificent snoring and thrashing, and she laughs with her whole body. It's perfect and yet some nights, the ugly secret I try to keep secret rears its nasty head.