I am three years old. I am lying in bed, listening to sleep.
Sleep is not silent, but has rhythms: breath rolling in and out of the lungs, up through the throat, mouth and nostrils, mother smacking, Daddy snoring.
Anita sleeps in the bed next to me. Her faint breath is punctuated by an occasional sigh and soft mew, almost like my kitten's.
I study the shadowed closet. The witch who lives behind the clothes and toys is utterly silent as she watches me.
I don't sleep much. I do a lot of nocturnal waiting.
I wait for the first wan rays of morning sun and the rattle of the milkman's glass bottles; the quiet murmurs and foot falls from Mother's and Daddy's bedroom as they rouse; the squeak of hinges on the bathroom door as it opens and closes.
At last, the night is over. I too can rouse and make noise. But I don't. I lie still, listen and wait.
Be Well and Good Luck,