They used to call them the small hours of the morning. 2, 3, 4 am…. small numbers, big eyes.  All night long, I am up and down, rolling over, blankets on, blankets off, unable to sleep.  Brain churning.  Too late?  Too early?  To take a sleeping pill.  Tomorrow–.today is going to be hell.

The talk radio inside my head gets especially loud in the small hours.  I replay scenarios from the day, 10 years ago, my childhood, and ones that haven’t happened yet.  I worry.  I fret.  I’d bite my nails but I gave up that habit decades ago.

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