OLD SOUL INK

Luke has been waking up, crying in a tired, drawn-out sort of manner, and going back to sleep, for about an hour now. This sort of slow torture is about what I imagine it must be like to be crushed to death, or perhaps to be put in an iron maiden. He's exhausted; nothing much I do comforts him; he's okay while I hold him, and seems to go to sleep, but starts up again when I lay him down in his crib. It tapers off; he goes back to sleep. Minutes pass. It begins all over again. It's such a sad little cry that my heart breaks. I wish I could talk to him, ask him what the matter is, explain to him that he's safe and loved.

Just as I type that last bit, H comes down the stairs with Luke in his arms.

"He's really hungry," H says.

Oh.