Last night, Jim and I talked in the lobby for
about an hour after dinner about all sorts of things. It was wonderful seeing
him; real one-on-one, face-to-face contact is so much
better than any amount of phone calling or time spent
emailing each other articles we’d found interesting and thought the other would
enjoy. Even though in the
background, my internal call-and-response mantra/catechism continued to cycle like a perpetual-neurotic-motion-machine,
our
talk cut through some of the recurring patterns that wallpaper
my mind.
Shortly after midnight, very sleepy, I
climbed to the room where Caroline and Jane had already gone to
bed. It was practically pitch-black, but
the heaven-colored and textured cream-white bedding
shone through. Because I am known for my
pattern-recognition
ability, which I am told is the mark of the
truly intelligent, the survivors, I headed toward the sleeping
form closest to the room door. If I
couldn’t discern my wife’s sleep-posture from my daughter’s, I must
not be the man I thought. I’m
not. Seen simply as shapes, Jane
now sleeps like Caroline and Caroline like Jane. I didn’t get into the wrong bed, but I nearly
did. I had forgotten that Jane
always takes the “best bed” on trips, which for present
purposes was the “other one.” Now awake
– they’re still asleep – my thoughts are totally disordered and I can’t
figure out next Tuesday at all.
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