I discovered white noise with my second baby, an interactive creature finely tuned to any commotion that signaled something interesting going on in the world. Curled up like a comma at my side, lulled by the soporific warmth of milk and love, he needed only the hum of the small fan to accept our primal slide from waking into sleep. Each night, his small heart drumming beside me, I dreamed the flow of running water, the patter of rain, wind tearing through the trees, the roaring heat of a fire keeping us alive. Many months later, but all too soon, he grew out of both milk and fan, sleeping unaided and deep. I claimed the fan for myself then, as if my own fitful sleep had all my life awaited for its womb-like comfort.
From 100 Words: The Beauty of Brevity. Word prompt: hum.