2:00 to 4:00 a.m. is a time period that I never knew much about until the last two years. When I was younger, I only visited that neighborhood while carousing, romancing or driving home from distant gigs. Lately, that time of night brings a wreath of unpaid bills, litigation, Chapter 7, angry words, family conflict, scheduling and logistical snarls, fear, frustration, shame and confusion which then rotates around my head until an hour or so before I need to go to work. Then there is a blissful hour of sleep followed by an even crueler few minutes of getting vertical for the day. I have experienced what seem like hundreds of those nights.
The loud and painful events bark for attention and lend themselves well to writing,
but there are profound moments where relief is quietly realized. It sneaks up, especially after a great ordeal or a couple years’ worth. The alarm and
vigilance don’t let up right away, so peace can come as something of a
surprise.
I’m looking out the office window across a parking lot, past
an iron rail and lamp post on the bridge and into the leftover glow from the sunset reflecting off the Damariscotta River. The river usually races by, switching
directions every six hours or so.
Right now it is still and silvery burnt orange.
I am ok. That is an incredible thing.
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