In the Quiet

I am not full up to the top. Not to the base of my neck, or to the point of my chin, or to the eyelids that cover my eyes.

I am full to over my head, to over the point that when I reach my arms up through the water above, only the tips of my fingers break the surface.

I am not full up to the top; I am full up to way over that.

This is the part in the movie that alarms start to go off. Someone is close to something bad, close to the edge of death or life or sanity. And the alarms blare.

Here, silence.

I lie back onto the pillows, waiting for sleep to come.

Sometime between wakefulness and sleep, an image appears that my brain has chosen as it begins to wander off. I love this moment, the moment between here and there. There is just that slip when I’m aware that it’s over. It makes me wonder what kinds of images I might see as I someday slip into death, into that final sleep.

But then, just as I’m about to nod off, an image that takes my breath away sits me upright in the bed.

Spiders crawling up my legs.

Intruders breaking through the window screens.

My mother-in-law falling down flights of stairs.

Fighting to the death, feeling my hands wrapping around someone’s throat, someone who’s here to kill me.

And there, now I am awake again.

Tonight, I am the only adult in the house. I lie beside a giant dog; he’s old, but he’s mean, too. The little one has good ears, and she will sound the alarm if anyone tries to get in. If the spiders emerge from the bed, too large to ignore. If someone falls. If a monster growls.

Both dogs will protect me from both reality and dream. I figure as long as the big one is snoring, I’m in good shape. The water retreats, and I am able to lift my chin above the surface and take one desperate breath.

Still alive.