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| Cloud Study by John Constable |
The first thing she does is look at the clock—11:30—damn, that means she slept about an hour and then woke up again, abruptly, for no reason—not a good sign—it’s like that song by the Talking Heads—can’t sleep my bed’s on fire—don’t touch me I’m a real live wire—and she was already stretched to her limit, with a full day at the office to get through tomorrow, David on a business trip, the nausea of her second pregnancy dragging her down, and a three-year old to care for—that’s what she worries about most, being a good mother—oh, God, all she wants, the only thing she really wants, is to be the way she used to be, a woman who slept the whole night through and who could move through the world with an oblivious ease because of that
and aching from the loss of that, she hears the sound of crying from another room, and then she panics, what can she possibly say to comfort her little girl, her sweet, sweet sugarplum, when she can’t even figure out how to get through the night herself, but when she carries her daughter into her own bed and lies down beside her, her child relaxes back into sleep without a word, and she realizes that all the little girl needs is the scent of her mother and a warm, breathing body next to her, and suddenly it is the easiest thing in the world to do what is necessary, just live through the night one breath at a time, and that’s all I’m going to say because even if I told you whether the woman soon fell into a deep, dreamless sleep or stayed awake until dawn, whether she goes to work or spends the day in bed crying, or whether she lives 60 years with her husband, raising children and grandchildren, or leaves David for a woman she meets in her book group, her story will only end when she dies, and I much prefer to leave her just where she is, breathing.
by Nina Zolotow
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(she has to admit, her twenties had been disappointing but there had been one thing that she could count on: every night she would slide her body on top of David’s and breathe in the warmth of his fragrance—whole wheat toast, ginger snaps, and fermented apples—and then when she was just on that blissful edge, he would nudge her gently and she would roll onto warm sheets, and morning sun coming in through window would be the next thing she knew)
and aching from the loss of that, she hears the sound of crying from another room, and then she panics, what can she possibly say to comfort her little girl, her sweet, sweet sugarplum, when she can’t even figure out how to get through the night herself, but when she carries her daughter into her own bed and lies down beside her, her child relaxes back into sleep without a word, and she realizes that all the little girl needs is the scent of her mother and a warm, breathing body next to her, and suddenly it is the easiest thing in the world to do what is necessary, just live through the night one breath at a time, and that’s all I’m going to say because even if I told you whether the woman soon fell into a deep, dreamless sleep or stayed awake until dawn, whether she goes to work or spends the day in bed crying, or whether she lives 60 years with her husband, raising children and grandchildren, or leaves David for a woman she meets in her book group, her story will only end when she dies, and I much prefer to leave her just where she is, breathing.
by Nina Zolotow
• Subscribe to Delusiastic! here • Follow Delusiastic! on Facebook and Nina on Instagram •
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