darkness visible

Nights are bad. I fall asleep easily enough, but after that nothing is easy. My sleep is shallow and brittle. I shift from bed to couch and back again. I wander up and down the stairs, turning lights on and off as I go. “Like a ghost,” says L, who sleeps very well himself.

At the earliest remotely reasonable hour, I get dressed for work and walk out to the car. My hands tremble as I shift gears and I don’t turn the radio on. When I pull in, the parking lot is nearly empty. There’s a cold wind coming off the water and a stale taste in the back of my throat. I can’t remember the last time I slept through the night. It’s almost as if I had a baby.