when sleep evades me

i usually toss around in bed, in denial that i can't fall asleep, that my body refuses to switch time zones. and so here it is almost 1 again and i am awake, plagued by this tangible sense of loss that is almost as dense as a fog of aroma. i unearthed a book tonight named "without," chronicling the love and loss of poet donald hall's cherished wife jane. he is a writer in residence at one of the schools i am contemplating and my colleague charlie mentioned him today as we lay down squares of carpet in our booth. he'd been married, divorced and then found true love late in life, 19 years his junior. only to have her perish at the age when he retired from teaching into his grandfather's house in new hampshire to write. it is a candid look at illness, loss, love, death.

and this morning, through a quick read of emails waiting in line like good children, i recovered one from the mother of a friend, who's becoming a friend herself, talking about what a hard summer it's been, missing her son at unexpected moments. i hurt for her these days when i think of him. i want to tend her heart as she goes through this "messy but necessary" thing that is grief. and in the end, i wrote to her that i wish she could see the many arms enfolding she and her husband through all these unexpected moments. and i think she will. it is my solemn prayer.