Every night before sleep comes I'm haunted by a vision. Grey cement and stone, a dangling overhead bulb flickering, water drip, drip, drop, drip, clink from the corner where a pot and a sink of stink, flies and dirt huddle, then the scratch marks on the wall. These marks aren't the days gone in solitary confinment but the count down to my return to the labor force, my daily droll away from my new family - I'm trapped and alone and no one can hear me, nor do they care...this is life...right.
It's late, the baby has been asleep on my lap for hours, and my eyes compulsorily blink through my TV hipnosis. If I go to bed then I'm one day closer to work, if I stay awake I am one less night of sleep. Slowly I haul myself up the steps with my bundle, and wade through the darkness to our bed. If I keep the lights off maybe I can trick myself into sleeping, and if I can't, well let the shadows play tricks - I don't have the energy to fiddle with a light switch let alone hallucinate it's morning already and sob from more hours of loss. My bundle signs and settles more comfortably by my side and I stare at the ceiling.
At some point I slept for 5 minutes or an hour...who knows. Time is stealthy these days and nights. The baby is stretching and murmuring it's time for a snack. I fumble for the boppy, sit cross legged, head bowed and eyes closed while she nurses. I'm not sure how long, but I know I've nodded off and she is asleep again. We recline, she sighs, I stare.
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