Blog: I Remember Sleep

I remember when I used to sleep.  It was really a wonderful time. I would actually sleep until my body woke me up, not the alarm. Not a child screaming from a nightmare, nor sleepwalking down the hall.  Not the ding of an incoming text nor the toot of car horns outside my window.  I could sleep through our barking dog, blaring sirens, and our screeching burglar alarm. 

I remember slipping softly into crisp high thread count sheets on my soft, pillow top mattress.  I remember the feeling of the cool breeze floating down on my face from the window open just above me.  Sleep came easily, quickly, silently, lasting 10, 11, sometimes 12 hours.  Bliss.

I remember sleep.  She would come almost anywhere -- on a boat, in a plane, on the floor of the train station, on a bench, or in a car.  She didn't need just the right place, nor any special stuff.  Upright, laid out, or curled up, she descended.

I remember waking up peacefully to the smell of freshly brewed coffee and the chirping of sparrows in my garden.  I remember the swoosh of the sprinklers soaking my lawn.  Not an alarm, not the thud of footsteps down the hall, nor the thwack of the newspaper hitting my front door.

I remember sleep.  I used to think maybe I slept too much, that I was 'wasting the day'.  What I know now was that I was storing up, notching the hours for the deprivation yet to come.  Not dozens, not tens, but hours that can be counted on one hand each night.

I remember sleep.  Maybe someday she will return. 

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