Night

It’s two in the morning and I’m awake. Not that I haven’t slept at all. A solid three hours passed between the nightime ritual of a hot bath and my current restless state. It yielded little comfort.

Such is the way when one gets old, or so I’m told by every doctor I consult. The condition of the spine turns iffy and legs take on a life of their own as they imitate a hooked fish flopping on the bank.

Three in the morning, and the last hour of stretching and relaxation exercises failed miserably. I roam the empty rooms, careful to not disturb the family who, by some grace of God, continue to slumber. I’m a ghost searching for peace, except I can’t walk through walls. Of this I’m certain, as I’ve accidentally tried more than once in the darkness. The legs spasms continue, and no position—sitting, standing, or laying down—brings relief.

A louder than normal click of the grandfather clock signals the transition to four in the morning. Outside, the moon makes its presence known, the cold light illuminating deer as they silently glide across the field out back. They are too skinny for this time of year, a consequence of overpopulation, even though the rains have come repeatedly throughout this hot summer. Winter will not be kind to the weak among them.

Soon dawn will break and it will be time for the world to roll out of bed. I’ll still be awake, but exhausted and more or less useless for the rest of the day. Multiple naps are in my future. I wish they weren’t, as sleeping on the sun’s clock only makes the coming night that much harder.

Still, when the time comes to close up shop, I’ll go to bed after a hot bath and hope for a full night of snoring. More likely than not, I’ll awake a mere handful of hours later and start the process over again.

It’s my own, personal circadian rhythm.