For most of his adult life, Ives does not sleep well. After his son's death, he thrashes in his sleep, scratches his arms and legs, leaves huge welts and sores all over his body. He's tormented for decades. Sleep is a curse for Ives.
I have never been a heavy sleeper. Any noise can rouse me. If my son rolls over in his bed in the next room, I wake up. If my wife breathes heavily, I wake up. If the moon is too bright, I wake up. I stay up late, and I get up before dawn. Morning is not my friend.
It's a matter of relaxation. Actually, it's a matter of not relaxing. I always have a hard time letting go of the day's worries. Collapsed ceilings. Cars making weird noises. Roof jobs and chest pains. I can't seem to forget all that stuff when my head hits the pillow.
I wish I could somehow write everything that's troubling me on a piece of paper, hand it to God, crawl under the covers, and simply fall asleep. Writer Anne Lamott uses the glove compartment of her car for just this purpose. It's her way of giving things up to the Great Problem Solver in the sky.
Maybe Saint Marty will write "I need a new ceiling, a new roof, a new job, and a new car" on an envelope and stuff it in his underwear drawer.
Don't Ask Why I Stopped Believing in Magic
by: Michael Mlekoday
darling, unless you want to hear
about the year Darnell's little sister
was struck by a drive-by bullet
through her bedroom window,
or how I condemned my dad's laziness
for missing Christmas Eve dinner
two weeks before he died,
or that I have friends my age
who are already divorced.
True, sometimes it rains
so hard, the whole city
sound like a music box.
Sometimes the snow
makes our neighborhood
feel like a secret handshake.
And true, sweetheart, we just met
a month ago and here I am,
writing you this letter
while a train howls past
my apartment, and I wonder
if it would take me to you,
if the boy must one day end
in order to be more like a myth,
if remembering is a kind of magic.
The last time I visited
my old neighborhood, I couldn't tell
the difference between the houses
that had been hit by the tornado
and the ones that were simply run down.
I walked up to my old house
and ran my hand along the siding,
wondering who lived there now,
and I remembered the time
when Misian and Alicia and maybe others
started sleeping in their little sisters' beds
with their backs to the outside walls,
hoping to protect the children
from stray gunfire, lying over them
soft as snow, and now, looking at the photo
you sent me of you holding a newborn,
I don't think I can answer
your question except by telling you
the night is sweet where I am,
and sometimes I'm a forgetful man.
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| This is not my underwear drawer |
