In Part

In the gray-black darkness a wan blue light pulses at me from another room—something electronic is grasping out to reach a distant tower.   The hydronic baseboard heater in my bedroom ticks softly for a few seconds and then drops abruptly to silence. 

I have fully awaked after only a few hours of sleep.  The moon has once again failed to melt through the clouds.  My cats have abandoned me.

I remain curled in my nest of pillows with my eyes open, sleepless.  Three years ago, within two days of this date, a doctor informed my wife that she had incurable cancer.  That sort of thing leaves permanent footprints across your heart.

--Mitchell Hegman