150 words #6
It was hot at Christmastime, the moon was full and we slept with the windows open. This is the room where I slept when I visited my new boyfriend on university vacations, the room where he slept as a child.
We sleep now—middle-aged and married—with no midnight trysts, no forbidden trips back and forth between our beds.
But through the night I am awake, blaming menopause (perimenopause?) for my insomnia.
Outside, a willy wagtail sings. The only bird I know that sings all night. Does it need no sleep? In daylight, its call is not at all remarkable, but at night its lilting whistle has a moonlit magic. The still air holds the song, no reverberation, no echo, but somehow it lingers.
I feel no frustration that I can’t sleep. I lie and listen, reimagine and remember. I touch my husband’s arm. He shifts, but doesn’t wake.