Wednesday, May 26, 2010

awake for no reason

at 4am - ach!

Actually, I had another nightmare about neglecting my child. I dream I'm failing as a mother; my son dreams that I've left him alone. His illness has rattled our faith in connection.

Fortunately it rained tonight; no air condo, the windows (some) are open letting in the sweet night that smells so much more like summer than May. And I'm awake, effing around on the computer, scanning Facebook and catching up on the blogs. In half an hour, the birds will start up. In two hours, there will be plenty of light at the windows to read by. In two and a half hours, my son will be stirring.

If we had a three-season porch, that's where I'd be, right now. I like the night. Wish I could hear and smell it without putting on my shoes or unlocking a door. I like the slow dance of family members asleep in their beds, turning and curling, stretching and rolling. I like the few random noises in the dark, numbered if not knowable. I like thinking about all my friends out there in their houses, street by block, neighborhood by neighborhood. Breathing quietly. Or awake, disturbed by some sound of a snuffling child or an alley cat cry in the distance. Laying in the tangled sheets with a spouse, a dog, or alone. Spouses sleep-dancing: partnered or distinct, avoiding each other's bodies or chasing each other gradually to the edge of the bed; blanket thieves, pillow hogs, snorers, kickers. Or tenderly reaching out to each in the night, for reassurance. Are you there? I imagine the sounds of their sighs, the noises they make as they dream. Muttering, whimpering, whispering.

In some old dreams I've had the power to fly, to glide silently in the night through the treetops, safe from danger and unseen. I remember living alone, and waking up in the night like this with the urge to ride my bicycle, which I sometimes did, through the dim echoing streets. I felt relatively safe, flying along, listening. I remember when I was sixteen, working the closing shift at a fast food place, riding my bike home after midnight in our then-quiet suburb (years and years ago, not so safe nowadays though my parents still live there.) Walking late at night, later on in college, with a man at my side -- secure in our attraction, unwilling to say goodnight, or good morning. I miss that very much.

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