a moment in the day: trying to sleep

It's the middle of the night. It's almost morning. It's two o'clock. It's four-fifty-five and the alarm is about to go off.

Don't look.

I turn over in bed, keeping my eyes closed away from the blue glow of the clock. It's cold. I tug on the covers but Nicholas between us is sleeping on top and I don't want to disturb him. The covers reach halfway across me, stopping at the edge of my shoulder.

Don't think, don't wake up, try to go back to sleep.

I shove my hands under the pillow to get them warm. It's the middle of the night. It's almost morning. Waking up these days is that immediate, oh yeah, remember all those things you're worried about? I guess it's always that way a little, but right now, it's all too much.

Will the city shut down, will people keep buying all the toilet paper for no reason, will everything grind to a halt, will I lose my job, our insurance...

Someone I love has a health issue and I desperately want to see them but coronavirus means I can't get on a plane and arrive on their doorstep with my love and my potential germs.

Don't think, don't wake up.

I recite from the alphabet. My trick for going back to sleep. Topic: names. Where did I leave off last night? The letter K.

Kate. Kathy. Kathleen. Katharine. Kwame. (Yesterday on NPR they had Kwame Alexander on, talking about poetry, and—stop. Don't think.) Karl. Karla. Kyan. Kevin.

Drift.

The start of something like a dream. My hands moving. Coming together. The movement of my hands.

As sometimes happens when I'm trying to go back to sleep, I start to dream of doing something, and my body mimics it, and the movement rouses me. My fingers jerk. I'm wide awake again.

I was washing my hands.