It is 3am and I have not been able to get to sleep. It is too hot and memories keep me restless as they drift before me, illuminated by the pale moon. Remember, fifteen years ago at 3am, I would be drunk, slinking home on the night bus. Do you recall those pleasurable jaunts into central London, when I was cavorting with the girls and teasing the boys? If ever I was typing in the early hours, it was late-night emails, cramming and finalising essays to a deadline.
At 3am ten years ago, I fashioned letters to Sam. They were bursting with big declarations and concepts I did not yet understand, but that I contorted into clichés and squeezed into twenty-five word sentences. Those sweet nothings were replaced with a 6lb 8oz something. 3am saw night-feeds, rocking and pacing, in an attempt to regain the elusive quiet. There had to be space for three, but it was crowded, and I lost myself for a time.
Later, when things turned sour, insomnia struck and instead of sleeping I would mentally compose letters with instructions to my solicitor. That all seems small and insignificant now, but the words I selected felt so important at the time. I believed that Sam and I were the centre of the world. As she grew, my baby proved me wrong, and broken nights were haunted with fears about her walking, her speech delay and diagnosis.
Research expended any spare minute. The “spare minute” was when dark had replaced light, and the dog was gently snoring at my feet. My letters were to paediatricians, occupational therapists and school boards. They had no idea my correspondence was conjured at the witching hour.
I am too warm. I feel old and tired, and I have realised my prose was never as powerful as I hoped it would be. I yearn for more influence than my marks on paper can provide; so I look to you, God. I bring you my anguish and disappointment, my gratitude and my desires. Though you have seen it all already. I don’t worry about my grammar, the structure, or how articulate I appear. You know my heart.
Often I write my prayers to you on paper, like now, starting with “Dear Lord,” in my journal. Some nights I don’t close my eyes at all and my letters are long, fretting about it all: work, my daughter, Covid-19 and climate change.
Tonight I plead that these apparitions from my darkest hours would leave me be, that the worries would dissipate, and the temperature would drop- just enough so that sleep would come and I won’t be too exhausted tomorrow. My mail rambles, apologises, and pleads. Fear not, for there is no expectation of a reply.
I let go and my musings float up into the starry atmosphere. I wait for your hands to catch them and, only then, can I tumble into supernatural slumber. I rest in your peace.
