Habeas Corpus

CSH Picone

Jun lays beside you, her head nestled in the crook of your shoulder and one golden arm resting across your chest. You can hear the children starting to stir outside: the clanging of ceramic bowls on the kitchen bench, cartoons playing softly, a toy train chugging along a plastic track. You consider getting up and making them breakfast but it sounds like the big one's already helping himself, and the little ones will come in and whinge if they get too hungry. They'll be alright for now. Jun is still deeply asleep, exhausted from late nights hunched over text books. Her breathing is soft, slow, silent. Unwilling to wake her, you roll to face her, wrapping your arm around her and hugging her in close. From this new position, you can see the cot crammed into the corner of the small room and in it your youngest child Henry, little more than a year old, occasionally letting out a little snore but otherwise sleeping just as peacefully as his mother. You reach up to brush Jun's long brown hair out of your face. She stirs slightly, then snuggles in closer, lets out a contented moan, and is silent once more. It might be assessment crunch time for her, but for you it is a weekend; a rare opportunity to sleep in past the sunrise. Closing your eyes, you are soon asleep again.
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