Deep refreshing sleep has been an elusive dream of mine my entire adult life. I sleep like a cat, ready to open one wide eye at the slightest hint of sound. Unfortunately, I don't devote my entire day to sleep like a cat does, lazily stretching and recurling into a soft snoozing lump. No, sleep for me is a battle, eight uninterrupted hours my holy grail.
The night before last, I woke up at 5:30 am to realize I'd slept through the entire night. I didn't wake up when Harry turned off the hall light (what, you can't hear light-switch clicks?); I remained sleeping when Marty came to bed; dog snoring and dream woofing failed to stir me; even my relentless bladder didn't get a rise out of me. At first, I thought I was only dreaming that I'd slept eight whole hours. But no, it had really happened. I felt immortal.
I had so much energy, everything in my path either wisely stepped aside or was foolishly vanquished. Fortunately for my co-residents, I started to slow down by the time they arrived home. Marty and I did have a spirited conversation about the Governor's fear-mongering edict cracking down on illegal immigrants. I even managed to fire off a letter of support to a Providence Journal editorial writer receiving death threats from residents due to his criticism of the fascist order. Lou Dobbs, I hate you.
Immortality was mine for one day only. Last night, it was back to my usual fitful sleep. Not a bad night, but not perfection. I dream on.
Footnote: Forty years ago on this date, when I was 14, the news of Martin Luther King, Jr.'s death came over the radio while my father and I were driving to a basketball game. I remember it clearly because my father, in a rare display of emotion, teared up. I started crying, too. April cruelty. "I had not thought death had undone so many."
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