Bedtime

I wonder what to say at the end of a long and weary day. I love you. I love you, world. Thank you for summer, potato vines, agapanthus, dirt, rose petals, grass, dogs, my dog, pillows, feather comforters, slippers, oleander, manzanita trees, moss and rivers.

It’s time to curl up into my big bed, my prize among prizes, my most holy sanctuary, my solace and comfort. It’s time to curl up into my bed, surrounded by pillows – one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight pillows – too many pillows, soft pillows, hard pillows, pillows with tattered cases and ones with crisp white grandmother’s hands embroidery. It’s time to curl up into my bed, surrounded by pillows, Mr. Finley – my bear among bears, distinguished and cuddly - tucked behind pillows with arms gently flailing but wrapped around Einstein, my stuffed Little Thinker. It’s time to curl up into my bed, surrounded by pillows, Mr. Finley and Einstein readied for dreaming and whistle.

She lopes. She plops off the sofa. I can hear her gravity and a crack as she stretches and a sigh and then a soft rhythm of loping. At the edge of the bed she rests her chin for a moment like a parenthetic embrace, an aside, a pause. Then I say okay, and she lingers, hesitates. She listens, but on her terms and it makes me giggle. She pretends this was her idea and doesn’t notice me – saunters up to the pillow and curls herself up. Her nose accidentally hits mine and she sighs heavy again – her whiskers tickle my chin. I nestle my hand between her front legs amid the soft fur on her chest and scritch her chin. She makes soft noises and we fall asleep.