And here is how the nights go:
I watch my ceiling and try to catch a humming fan blade in my sight as it swings and slices, my eyes latching and clinging and tiring in an instant, slipping off to crash back onto my down comforter and suffocate a body that is restless, sweaty and sore.
A thrumming anxiety in my stomach contracts my rectus abdominis and my breathing is shallow, twitchy, pained. Seismic activities and spasms to irritate my spine and I roll over, again.
Henry is curled at my feet and he is awake, but keeps his head down; I feel him moving his eyes, tiny reverbations which trickle upwards through my ankles and shins and climb the rungs of my chest and tickle at my nose.
I roll over, again. This time to face the open window where the lake has been vigilant and is now waking. A breeze, a mockingbird, the hazy light of pre-dawn.
I get up.
