Sleep is for Those Who Take Comfort in Knowing That They're Small (for my mother and father)

Nights,

when sleep won’t weight my eyes with heavy insignificance,

I remember other, older nights

when my child-legs, throbbing with small pains,

led me to the cotton-counted valley

your bodies spared

for me.

            soothing oil

palmed across my aching calves and thighs

            sleep-slurred sighs

promised I’d wake to waffles in the morning

star-glazed windowpanes weep for 3 AM

I could sleep there,

in the breathing inbetween

where your bodies moved like lungs

to keep me safe,

and small.

    
I wasn't sure why I woke to the dark last Tuesday morning (October 20), around 1:45.  One o'clock isn't usually my waking hour -- usually, that's around 3:30, so I wasn't sure why I was up.  I mused, trying to remember if I'd had any unusual dreams or nightmares which would have unsettled my sleep. My dream-memory was as blank as the starless sky.  I did, however, remember a poem, above, which I had written for a class last semester, and I coveted the sleep of three-year-olds.  I've always wondered at how little children can sleep: there are no nagging worries steeping in their easy sleep.  They know that they are small, and fit within the borders of blankets, pillows and beds. There is a safety in that tiny knowledge, and thus, children peacefully dream.

So I was up, and questioning why.  I had been worried about Mom for days.  She'd stayed with Grandma almost every night the week before, and I had sat with both of them Sunday night.  Watching Grandma dwindle and shrink into herself had been taxing on me, and I knew that it must be as wretched as it was sweet for Mom.  I was concerned for all of us, and figured that was why I was awake.

The phone rang at about a quarter past two.  I switched my bedside lamp on, turned to face my brother's bed and said, "Gavin, I think that's the call telling us Grandma has passed."  Mom came downstairs about five minutes later and confirmed my thoughts.  It was a relief, almost, to hear that Grandma had finally let go and passed on.  She had finally allowed herself to die-- some sort of knowledge of what lies beyond had been given her, I think. It freed her from the tension, fear, pain and confusion which balled her fists and beat her heart those last few weeks.  She had been so afraid of dying, but she held on to peace Tuesday morning and just fell asleep, taking comfort in knowing she would fit wherever it is she would be going.


I've thought a lot about life and death and faith and eternity, and I feel a part of all things and I feel a part of no thing.  I am in awe of everything making sense: my life, Grandma's death, Mom's faith, God's eternity.  The sleeping of babies.  I've slept well every night this week.