I
love getting up in the middle of the night.
Awakening
gradually, your body tells you it can’t wait till morning. I roll over and sit
up. As I toss the covers, gooseflesh rises on my limbs. The air is cold, crisp
and quick on my skin. Throwing my legs over the side of the bed, my feet fumble
for the thick slippers lying on the rug so they may escape the hard floor that
will feel like an ice rink. I gaze about the room, still fuzzy headed from
sleep. The cat, sleeping at my back, looks up at me and blinks in confusion.
Then she puts her head back down, and covers her eyes and nose with a paw. The
dog, sleeping on her blanket next to my side of the bed, doesn’t even twitch.
The
nightlights in the bedroom and bath cast a golden glow, a gentle light that
settles around the baseboards. I shuffle to the bathroom as quietly as I can,
so my sleeping husband can continue undisturbed. The full moon is glaring at me
through the skylight, and I squint at it, trying to make the blurred edges
sharper, but without my glasses, I fail.
Climbing
back into bed, I scoot way down under the quilts. The flannel sheets are soft
and still very warm. I feel my skin begin to heat up immediately. The cat puts
it in reverse and nestles underneath my shoulder blade with her back. She seems
to always know exactly where the pain is there, and soothes it with her higher
body temperature. That’s a God thing, for sure.
As
I drift back off to sleep, snuggled safe and content, I think once again: I
love getting up in the middle of the night.
As
long as I can go right back to my nest, while it’s still warm and inviting.
