My brother is a chronic insomniac.

I have jet lag so severe that night is day.

In the kitchen, in wee hours:

“Hey.”

“‘Sup.”

Midnight dew is brain food and I know he’s thinking about the movie he’s making, which reminds me of how I should be thinking about the book I’m making.

He has the craziest, wildest hair. Seriously. You should see his hair. W.I.L.D.

The quiet night, dark river speak of quiet, no cars, few lights, everyone softly sleep breathing instead of laughing, wresting wake breathing, which means there’s more air for the jet lagged and insomniacs with lids still up.

You probably know this, but I have to relearn it every time: Visine does not fix the pain.

Did anyone find and bathe Crush? Crush is my sister’s son’s pet turtle. He has the (slow) run of the yard during the day. Sometimes he (slow) runs down the sidewalk when the kids are playing badminton.

“‘Night.”

“Yuh.”

Tired as I am, backwards, or upside down body-clock time will leave me with a memory of hair so wild I could knit a sweater out of it.

If the hair were straight.

And if I knit.

This is jet lag, don’t you know.

 

 

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