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.Continue reading