Four in the morning, and the night is eerily still, but I am wakened from fitful sleep by the moon shining through the cracks in the vertical blinds that block the view from our bedroom window. Moonlight is magical that way, slipping inside through nooks and crannys far too subtle for the relentless sun.
I was floating on waves of dreams, but they wanted to pull me under the surface, and I kept waking myself, afraid of drowning. I feel both grandparents close to me, but their presence is more troubling than soothing right now. Almost, I think they want me to tell their story, but then I think, no, my grandmother gave that task to my aunt.
I get up, go to the bathroom, and sit, reading, on the toilet for a while. My mind is halfway between sleep and real wakefulness, but my body is reminding me that I truly need rest. I come back to bed, cuddle the dog, pull out the laptop. My temperature moves from flushed to chilled, my skin prickles, the breeze from the ceiling fan is too cold, but I know in a moment it won't be cold enough.
I wish for the ease of sleep that Fuzzy has, the ability to turn off the racing of his mind, and crash hard, whenever he needs to.
I sip water. I write. I go to the window and look at the moon, notice it's hidden behind a nearly invisible cloud, just enough veiling to make it look shimmery and remote.
My dog presses his tiny body against my hip, and his breathing becomes nearly indetectable as he goes back to sleep. I decide I must follow his example.
Four fifty-four.
I have to be up in two hours.