The Witching Hour
All the pillows are arranged and rearranged and every small light—on the computer, phone, and smoke detector—has been covered—with books, sweaters, and bits of black electrical tape.
Perhaps I should simply abandon the bed, arise and be productive, and though my logical minds heeds a warning about the necessity of rest and I try to imagine water lapping against a sandy shore, sleep simply cannot overcome this frenetic brain.
I hate to illuminate the darkness with the necessary lamp, especially when I’ve worked so hard to create it, and because lit rooms in the middle of the night recall the many frantic, sleepless nights spent in college writing papers, and especially because they make me worry, more than anything else, that I may be turning into my mother.
“I’ve been up since four a.m.” she would scorn us when we woke at seven.
Somehow we are only disdainful of her guilt laden salutation: “if you wanted us up at four you should have woken us up at four. Don’t be angry because we were asleep.” Even though we said it, time and time again, she never dragged us from our slumber to join her sleepless revelry.
I will never be angry at my children because they are asleep. She might sweep about, writing sonnets, doing taxes, cleaning clip drawers, but I am still.
Like her, though, I am loathe to wake the sleeping world: the house, the chairs, the television set, the doors, the sink, and all the toys on the living room floor.
Even the refrigerator drones drowsily: dark, but dependable. Likewise the dog: who stirs to prove that he is alive when I step over him to sit outside on the step.
The house and its inhabitants are asleep, but outside the night time world greets me wide awake.
My eyes and ears adjust till they match the cat’s, he is my only company, and we share in the views of the nighttime yard and the magic of the midnight hour.
The crickets have long stopped chirping and the lightning bugs have long stopped blinking, but within the sky the whole world turns and when we look long enough the stars start to dance.
Timeless and ageless and far beyond comprehension, to realize the distance is an impossibility and yet, it seems, that if we climbed high enough, to the very tops of the tallest trees swaying in the night, and stretched out our arms, we might stir the stars around with our finger tips. There they are, something to see and know and wish upon, our very own cosmic show.
Dizzy from the world turning, I wonder if my mother is lost in the very same stars. Is this the hour of witches or dreamers? Of creative minds or early morning cleaning missions? At this hour I’m not sure I object to any categorization. The cat purrs in my lap, reminding me that I am chilly, despite my blanket, and covered in dew. My mind is returned from the galaxies beyond and, though I am not tired, I slip silently back into bed. Soon I will sleep, because my mind is at rest and tomorrow I will make all things good.
Perhaps I should simply abandon the bed, arise and be productive, and though my logical minds heeds a warning about the necessity of rest and I try to imagine water lapping against a sandy shore, sleep simply cannot overcome this frenetic brain.
I hate to illuminate the darkness with the necessary lamp, especially when I’ve worked so hard to create it, and because lit rooms in the middle of the night recall the many frantic, sleepless nights spent in college writing papers, and especially because they make me worry, more than anything else, that I may be turning into my mother.
“I’ve been up since four a.m.” she would scorn us when we woke at seven.
Somehow we are only disdainful of her guilt laden salutation: “if you wanted us up at four you should have woken us up at four. Don’t be angry because we were asleep.” Even though we said it, time and time again, she never dragged us from our slumber to join her sleepless revelry.
I will never be angry at my children because they are asleep. She might sweep about, writing sonnets, doing taxes, cleaning clip drawers, but I am still.
Like her, though, I am loathe to wake the sleeping world: the house, the chairs, the television set, the doors, the sink, and all the toys on the living room floor.
Even the refrigerator drones drowsily: dark, but dependable. Likewise the dog: who stirs to prove that he is alive when I step over him to sit outside on the step.
The house and its inhabitants are asleep, but outside the night time world greets me wide awake.
My eyes and ears adjust till they match the cat’s, he is my only company, and we share in the views of the nighttime yard and the magic of the midnight hour.
The crickets have long stopped chirping and the lightning bugs have long stopped blinking, but within the sky the whole world turns and when we look long enough the stars start to dance.
Timeless and ageless and far beyond comprehension, to realize the distance is an impossibility and yet, it seems, that if we climbed high enough, to the very tops of the tallest trees swaying in the night, and stretched out our arms, we might stir the stars around with our finger tips. There they are, something to see and know and wish upon, our very own cosmic show.
Dizzy from the world turning, I wonder if my mother is lost in the very same stars. Is this the hour of witches or dreamers? Of creative minds or early morning cleaning missions? At this hour I’m not sure I object to any categorization. The cat purrs in my lap, reminding me that I am chilly, despite my blanket, and covered in dew. My mind is returned from the galaxies beyond and, though I am not tired, I slip silently back into bed. Soon I will sleep, because my mind is at rest and tomorrow I will make all things good.
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