the del sherpa dialect: November 2009

Monday, November 23, 2009

She was having trouble sleeping. She knew because she wrote it down on her list of things to do that week (1. pay bills 2. stop drinking 3. get more sleep). Even her go to, on the side, shirt off, hair wet , blanket in between legs position failed to get her eyelids to commit. To shut. The wine helped. But it made her mouth red and her mornings feel like marathons. She counted the clicks of the heater to keep track of how long she’d been up. One, two, three- a police siren went off and the urban crickets hollered as it flew down the block. She was under the impression that she enjoyed sleeping alone, convinced that another body would only hinder her dreams. It was by choice, a proclamation to the world written in beautiful cursive: I have four pillows for one head. Every night she climbed closer to the edge of the bed, certain she needed to make room for her impending nightmares. She wondered if her mom still loved her. If she forgive her for not ever calling back, for being a bad daughter. Her body ached from carrying the weight of twenty two bodies. The cigarettes helped. But they made her fingernails smell and her self restraint appear non existent (I hope Dante did his homework, I hope somebody tucked him into bed and told him he deserved everything single thing in the world) Four, five, six- another siren, another holler. He used to help. But he made her happy, too happy to sleep. There was no need to dream when he was there, laying would suffice. Seven, eight, nine- her alarm went off. She had survived another sleepless night. Time to run another marathon. Red mouth, smelly fingernails, empty bed, twenty two bodies and all. Maybe today she would make it to the finish line.