Nighttime. Time for bed. Morrison innocently eats a bowl of cereal at the kitchen counter. We’ve spent the night apart, me watching a movie, Morrison playing what I perceive to be a very intricate Viking computer game with some friends. I wander in with big, scared eyes.
Me: Can I have a hug?
[I step into it.]
Me: I just wanted The Impossible, it’s a Tsunami movie, heartwarming family disaster porn, and I need you to tell me we and Joe and mostly Joe will never die in a Tsunami. Because if you die, or Joe dies, I will die.
Morrison: We probably won’t die in a tsunami.
[I stay there for a few moments in the safety of his arms which can both stop water and calm my thoughts.]
Morrison: If it makes you feel any better, tonight I built a fortress wall, with spikes.
Me: IT DOES. Can you make it tall enough to stop a tsunami?
Morrison: Oooh, that actually sounds really fun —
Me: Can you do it tomorrow? Right now, will you come to bed and I’ll cling to you like a life jacket?
Morrison: Definitely. But tomorrow, I’ll build the wall.
Me, following him forever into our room: I LOVE YOU, YOU ARE THE TREE I WOULD CLING TO IF A TSUNAMI HIT