Night vision

Yep, it's one of those nights.

John's hand curls around mine like a peace lily. He's in some kind of arrhythmia, and I know he's worried that this means his surgery has failed.

The meager light that strays into the bedroom allows me to make out the faint light of the ceiling fan, which looks like a giant stylized daisy above the bed. The darkness sparks and twinkles with dark blue and spots of other colors. The night always has colors for me.

I make myself rise up toward the ceiling. I'm reminded of the time I took a trip with a boyfriend to Montreal on the train, sleeping on the tiny top bunk in the sleeper car. It took a bit of Xanax to get me through that; another boyfriend's tiny trailer had given me claustrophobia for life.

The night bedroom is not claustrophobic for me. John is my friend, and gives me freedom. The darkness allows me to see things that are obscured in daylight.

I have wondered if I will pass into death as peacefully and happily as I pass into sleep. It could happen. But on nights like this, I will drink in the insomnia, and hope.

May