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The kid didn't want to play this morning, but I did...

Looking for Sleep

By Robert Pappas

I opened one bleary eye. Again. For the fifth time.

The red numbers on my iPhone, dimmed in "sleep mode," which, let’s be honest, is a lie, whispered quietly: You'll never find her.

And with that, I gave in. I rolled over, sighed like a man twice my age (which is like 150), and sat up. Feet met cold ground. And there they were, waiting for me in the corner like regulars at a sad dive bar.

Anxiety was already pacing. She’s always early.

Distraction showed up too, this time as three identical versions of herself, bouncing around with things I definitely did want to look into but definitely shouldn’t.

Sarcasm, a wiry little thing in a too-tight blazer, gave me a dry nod.

And Wit? He looked up from the floor, barely visible. I squinted. “Hey, Wit,” I muttered, mostly to myself.

These characters never really answered. They just existed. Always had. But something or someone was missing.

Sleep.

Usually, she lingers at the end of the line, standing there with her arms crossed and a look that says, If you had come to bed thirty minutes earlier, maybe we’d be on better terms.

She’s sweet when she sticks around. Restorative, even.

But last night, she vanished. Not even her cousin Napping had stopped by.

So I asked the room.

“Anyone seen Sleep?”

Anxiety got taller.

Distraction multiplied again.

Sarcasm rolled her eyes and turned her back.

Wit got smaller.

Figures.

I checked the usual spots.

The hammock on the porch? Nope.

The warm driver’s seat when the heater is on? Nope.

On the couch, throw blanket with the remote? Tempting, but no.

I got ready and dragged myself to work.

Sometimes, when I put in long hours, she shows up, tucks herself between tasks, and pretends it is a coffee break.

No such luck today.

The day passed. I was fried. Toasted. Burnt on both sides.

Working without sleep or even a brief visit from Napping is rough. You start to lose grip on things like time, words, and the point of meetings.

Then, later that night, I walked in the door. Dropped my bag. Headed to the kitchen like a homing pigeon on autopilot. Cold chicken from the fridge? Check. One beer? Check.

By the third beer, I found her.

She was curled up behind the bottle, eyes closed, wearing that smug little smile that says, You didn’t earn me, but fine.

I didn’t argue. I picked her up, stumbled toward the couch, and let her take me.

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Julie Bogart's avatar

Would love to read your children's freewrites if you post them here!

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