It is late. My father has fallen asleep on the coach again. Stretched out, arm draped over his body, head rolled back. With each exhale a loud, guttural grumble escapes his nose. The deep vibrations fill the room. They carry the weight of a long day drafting papers and a flaming hip. His body is illuminated by the flickerings of television. Bright yellow flashes from an old movie that has long since been muted. Clicking it off, the room darkens, revealing moonlight that streams in. Cool air flows from the large windows that surround, bringing a breath of chill. Upstairs his room is thick with the hot oppression of summer air, and so often I awake to find him lying there, another shadow amongst the still house.
My mother tosses upstairs, another house, another street. She lays stomach down, face smothered amongst the pillows, legs sprawled atop the sheets. Under the thin night dress, her skin is moist with sweat. The fan above spins too slowly, and she tosses again fitfully. I imagine her mind racing. Thoughts speed past, her earlier meetings and pending resolutions. Spinning faster and faster, relentless. Dreading the first grey glow of morning that will inevitably bring the incessant chirping of the bird that nests by her head. Chirping, chirping, chirping... driving her mad. Above the fan still spins, slowly, slowly.
My brother’s bed is empty. He is in college, and it has been a while now since he has slept in it. When we were younger, our parents would make us share a bed during travel. I would awake, shivering, to find I had been stripped of all warmth. My brother would lay across the bed, wrapped tightly in a cocoon of sheets. I would pull at them, only to find they were clenched in his fists and tangled in his legs. Other nights, I would turn only to find myself sandwiched between his bony elbows and the sudden edge of the bed. Still sometimes, I would awake to hear his own accusations. The night was a battle.
I suppose I am a rather light sleeper. You can often find me curled on my side, as close to the edge as possible without falling off. I dream often- bright, vivid, and unusual dreams spiced with occasional nightmares. In the daytime, I have recounted an old story to my parents, only to be met with questioning eyes, unremembering eyes. My dreams become tangled with my memories, and sometimes, my memories become questionable, inextricable from the imagination of my sleep.
Tonight I lay awake, as I often do, unable to sleep. On nights like this, I peer outside my window. There is a square of yellow light in the top left of the house in the distance. It is always glowing. I wonder about this person beyond the light. As the stars pass slowly overhead, do they sit at a desk, papers scrawled and pen scribbling? Or, do they face the ceiling above, mindlessly staring? I wonder who they are. It feels comforting to be connected to this stranger in the night, one more lonely soul. I wonder who else lies awake this very moment, feeling the minutes tick by. Taking one last longing look towards that luminous yellow, I climb back under my covers and sigh as the darkness descends once more.
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