Four AM

Four AM doesn’t inquire politely. It kicked the door down in a spray of splintered hostility, stomped across the wooden floor, and dropped its burlap sack of stony thoughts on my forehead as I was sleeping. Though uninvited, it then flopped down in a chair to stay a while, bellowing loudly.

I’d tried finding asylum on the patio, some sanctuary amid the stars and blinking-sky lights of wonder, but he’d followed me out, his bellowing disturbing the woodland creatures as they stirred in murky-rustlings, frightening the stars themselves, which retreated into night’s shadow.

Each day is a glass mosaic of moments, and there are always a few shattered pieces upon which our focus settles, and to which we return, letting the others find the welcomed anonymity of blurry obscurity.

“I might go to my mother’s for a few days.” she’d said earlier. I hadn’t expected it.

“How is your father?”

“He’s healing, but she’s growing tired. Caring for him is draining, and I need some time away.”

Some mindless chatter followed, more bits of blurry obscurity.

“I have some issues inside myself that I need to work out.”

“Don’t we all?” I’d thought to myself, though I likely returned a benign reply.

It’s Four AM, and she’s sleeping. Her unspoken thoughts lay curled up in the sheets next to her, huddled closely though it’s unclear who is holding whom, and I’m awake watching the stars disappear, wondering how the sun rises each day through ebony’s impermeability.

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