Ruach Elohim

A breeze glides across my pillow, caresses my face like a cupped palm, the fingers gentle and cool against my hotly flushed cheek.

Hush, hush, it whispers. Hush, now. Sleep.

And I think, sadly, faintly, as it lingers near the foot of my bed: The wind is a better mother than mine ever was.

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Later I think, still faintly, but wonderingly, too: Of course it is. Spirit, breath, wind. All the same. Ruach. It is hovering over me.

And I am not so sad anymore.