I drive with the windows down without music so I won’t disturb the night, stop to let a deer cross 37th Street. We are the only creatures awake or alive. Except there’s another one standing frozen in the woods to the left of the road, reflector eyes staring out.
The darkness is immense and the sound of it.
I take a long shower and walk through the house. Outside my parents’ room I linger and listen. The ceiling fan hums and squeaks. Ed has a deep bass snore, so loud he sometimes wakes himself. My mom breathes an endless series of little gasps, as if afraid of all she’s seeing down in her dreams.
Tell her I love her telepathically, how else?
If I could write just one song with the feeling of hearing my mother sleep.
Go in your room and lie down.
Helene.
Her voice an echo ringing back, last thing you hear before sleep hits, her hair a shroud to bury or burn you in, beneath her shirt is a heaven of creamies like nothing you’ve known. You see her in black bra and panties bent way over and everything then is fear and desire. You sidle up and touch and melt.