Sleepless morning number four. I wake uncomfortable and stiff, sometimes from strange dreams and sometimes just to the whir of the ceiling fan and the still dim streetlight glow of the windows.
I haven't been able to shake it these mornings, that weight of lack behind my eyes, that presence of unsettledness, that want for an easy start. In between attempts to sleep, I wander out into the dark house to feed the animals, a need I know I can satiate. I shut the door behind me again, a second goodnight, and press myself into the mattress. There is no good angle of legs, no satisfying proportion of sheet and exposed skin, no texture of pillow smooth enough to bury into. Once day comes, my eyes tell my body there is no more trying.
I press my palms to my eyes. Where has sleep gone? I search for ways to recover the day and start again. A smoothie, maybe, or a slow walk around the gorge. A favorite song. The next essay in the collection I'm reading. Before I make any real progress, I realize it's noon and I've not only lost some night but my whole morning, and now day is slipping into its other half without me.
Tomorrow is open, wholly mine. Maybe I'll embrace the early hour, if it comes, and sit on the porch to welcome the color behind the trees. In not fighting, perhaps my body will relax and wiggle into whatever comes, grateful for another sun.
