Ginny’s gone, but here’s a pome from before all that, in commiseration with all my Facebook friends who post in the middle of the night.
3:30 am the witching hour right?
Get up to pee take my thyroid pill tuck myself back in with three pillows
Chris and our dog Ginny snuffling and puffing in their dreams. All is right in this best of all possible worlds.
Maybe you know what comes next: You’re out there like me in your warm bed but the swarm arises in your head and
all the tricks you try only stir the frenzied buzz. Who batted the hive between your ears?
Regrets are the worst: How could I have done that? What was I thinking? OMG, what an ass.
So then at 4:30 am maybe you get up again go to the window where a full moon throws
tree-wide stripes across the lawn and an owl swoops past like some cowled and fretful wraith.
Go downstairs pick up a book a diversion in hopes the hornets will gentle which they sort of do.
But now it’s dawn. Chris is up and in the shower, coffee’s on, Ginny stretches and yawns and finds you lifting a heavy head
to the new day with gratitude for sunlight, for imposition, for all the honeyed routines that keep things humming.
The hours unwind with things to do with effort this time to do better maybe learn from past mistakes
then fall to your pillows and let it all flee until at 3:30 am you get up to pee.
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