Any of you have nights when you wake up and just cannot, for the love of Pete, go back to sleep?
If you don't, don't even tell me.
If you do, who knows - you might be reading this right now.
Usually when this happens I'll just toss and turn.
Look at the ceiling in the dark.
Consider putting some of those glow in the dark stars up there.
Make up ridiculous things to fret about.
Toss some more.
And eventually fall back to sleep.
Some nights, like tonight, I'll get up and go to the sunroom and wish I still smoked.
Sometimes I'll turn on a light.
Sometimes I'll light a candle. Or two.
Sometimes I'll just sit in the dark and will pretty soon hear Harley's little toenails click click clicking across the floor until he hops up on the sofa with me.
What's he thinking?
Does he worry?
Have I raised a dog who frets like his mama?
God forbid.
Does he just think if he stays here with me long enough with his head in my lap whatever has gotten me up will go away and we can both go back to bed?
Or does he just want a well-past-midnight snack?
And sometimes Donald will join us. With one eye open, his hair standing straight up and with a sleepy voice ask if I'm okay.
And I will answer truthfully either "yes, I'm fine," or "no, I'm not."
If the answer is no, he'll ask what's wrong and after I've told him, invariably the answer is so ridiculous that we're both laughing by the time I've finished relating the midnight crisis. Then he'll shake his head and ask me if I think maybe I'm reading too many books.
and we'll go to bed.
Tonight/this morning/dawn/whatever, Harley became impatient, sighed a deep doggie sigh and went back to bed while I browsed through a bag of books I bought home from Alabama.
I purposely haven't taken all the books out yet 'cause it's more fun to reach in, pull one out and be surprised.
I don't remember buying this book "Harlem."
Harlem a Poem by Walter Dean Myers, with pictures by son Christopher Myers is a Caldecott Honor Book " . . . celebrating the people, sights, and sounds of Harlem."
Celebrating them pretty powerfully with words and art.
"Squares
Block, bricks
Fat/round women in a rectangle
Sunday night gospel
'Precious Lord . . . take my hand,
Lead on on, let me stand . . . '
Caught by a full lipped, full hipped
Saint washing collard greens in a cracked
Porcelain sink
Backing up Lady Day on the radio . . . "
According to amazon.com, School Library Journal declares this book to be for Grade 6 and Up.
That "Up" covers a lot of territory.
And it reminds me of the C.S. Lewis (I think it was C.S. Lewis) quote. "But some day you will be old enough to start reading fairy tales again."
since I can't have a cigarette, and since Donald is sound asleep, and apparently not going to wake up and check on me (aren't we glad I'm okay and not in deep distress, here? Not to worry, I'd wake him if I were. Except my knee hurts. Damn old knee.) and Harley has abandoned me, let's see if the Sandman and I can't maybe connect now.
Nite, all . . .
If any of you still smoke, would you have one for me, please?
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