I am trying to build a relationship with sleep. It has been long enough, the two of us wanting to reach out but avoiding each other anyway. Maybe it is just clinging to the nostalgia of being tucked in, but as I lie in the dark with the lights off and eyes closed, I have started to routinely put parts of myself to bed. I feel like a house stuffed with raucous children tumbling around the living room, their voices rough and loud. One by one I lead them upstairs and tuck them in.
Brain is always the first one. He is that age that dissolves my patience, somewhere between 6 to 8, particularly in boys, but I try to be gentle anyway. I take him by the hand and lead him upstairs, make sure his teeth are brushed, and sit beside his bed. I tell him all the wonderful things he did that day, all the little problems he figured out and the fascinating trips we went on together. We learned a lot today, I say, and now it’s time to rest up so we can do even more tomorrow. He tries to keep talking – he could tell me endless stories about the most mundane things, stories that have no beginning and no end yet connect to other things in infinite spiderwebbing. I cut through them, say yes, yes you told me that before. Now let’s be quiet in the dark for a while. When he has been quiet for a little while, I silently get up and leave.
Fear is a furrowed little owl of a girl, with eyes that are always round and distrustful. She is like a baby tree, barely a few years old yet already ancient. She just stares at me when I tell her it’s time for bed. I don’t talk for long, for I don’t know how many of my words she understands – I pick her up and carry her up the stairs, her twig arms curled around my neck. This she understands. Her breath is shallow cups of warm water splashing my neck, and when I first lower her to the bed, her arms fuse around me. I assure her I am not going anywhere, that she is safe in this room, and gently disentangle myself. I thank her for everything she has done to try to protect me, for all the hard work she does. I try to remind her she does not have to try so hard. This makes her tremble and cry and I stroke her hair, hearing Brain begin to fret in the next room. His questions bounce down the hall and I kiss Fear’s forehead, tell her I will be right back, and I go to try and soothe Brain and his endless puzzlings. When I come back, Fear’s eyes shimmer at me out of the darkness, and I rub her back until she falls asleep, the stitches in her forehead loosened and smooth.
There are more children to be tended to on any given night, and the last one left is Love. Love is actually a dog with long, chestnut fur and floppy velvet pancake ears. He often comes round with me to tuck the children in, as he has more patience than I do, and will let the children pet him until the blinds of their eyelids slide down. He curls up with me in my bed and licks my hand before we both settle in, welcoming the dark and the still, breathing, separate but not alone.