Waiting for Morning

I'm lying in bed waiting for the children to fall asleep. My wife is at the other end of the bed reading a book titled Waiting for Morning. I know nothing about it, but it looks to have the making of an O-Book.

Waiting for morning, isn't that what every night is about? It's torture for me. I wish sleep would just take me, but it doesn't. And so I lie here, waiting for morning, longing for that bewitching moment when, in one instant, I am aware no more, and in the next, the morning has come.

What do I do while I wait? I look around. At the light, next to my wife's side of the bed, by which she now reads. I spent no small amount of time locating the exact spot for that light, forever ago it seems, once our king sized bed was moved into place, so that it would perfectly provide illumination for reading on nights such as these.

I look at the ceiling fan. We spent hours at Home Depot deliberating which fan to get, what style, what size. Then came the installation, who knows how long that took. I was quite ecstatic once it was done, and a tap on the switch was rewarded with a steady and balanced twirling fan, at all three settings. This fan would, and has, dutifully sent currents of air over our bodies for many a summer nights. It has hung vigilant over our sleeping bodies, doing its job.

I take great comfort in this house, for I built it myself. Quite literally. My hands took part in near every part of its construction, them doing most every part themselves. Dare I say the only part I did not personally do or actively supervise was a bit of plumbing, which resulted in much grief later... but that's a musing for another night. Tonight I just take satisfaction in knowing exactly how everything in this house works (or doesn't work at times.) I know how the wires to that ceiling fan were run, where they lay in the attic, how they are secured, how they attach to that fan, for I twisted the connectors myself. I tucked the wires back into it's ceiling box myself, and I fastened the assembly myself using two strong and sturdy screws. I have no fear of that fan falling on our bellies, for I know exactly why it won't.

There on the ceiling, still resides a splatter of texture spray, put on after the final coat of paint was, to correct a texture anomaly. We never got around to painting over this patch. It doesn't bother me much. No-one notices it, save me, and I think it fine.

I like it here, because I know so much about it, near everything. I went into it, so much of me. I am here, in every length of lumber, in every nail and screw, in every door and window, in everything here, in what you see and what you don't. It is I.

And it is somewhere near this thought that in this realm, I am no more. For a while, at least. I am somewhere else. A place where anything happens and does. Time and space have no place there. And so it goes. And then I'm back. And I wait for morning no more.