Turned In

Now is when I should be writing a paper. I round up water bottles, lock the front door and make my way upstairs. All kids are asleep with dreams of deep-sea diving and the Sooperdooperlooper. Manny's asleep on his drawing papers. Benicio's webkin stands centurion by his pillow. By the light of their purple chandelier, I see Clara who gave her whole self to the day's swimming. Now, she gives over to sleep with an equal surrender. Calliope is wistful in sleep, her pillow is her cohort as she cozies into its softness.

And when I look into our room, the pages from Geoff's book flutter quietly from the ceiling fan. He is like the mango skin that I cut for the sorbet-- a peel that had earlier housed the day's calculus, its shape, its energy. His sleep is delicious and solid and I have a pang of envy.

But I will continue through the night with my ice water, the little hum of this computer and all the thoughts I need to hand in for Tuesday.