Sing Me to Sleep
from the chemo journals of Queen Ova
Last night when I went to bed, Pain was my bedfellow. I took a pill to ease his hold on me and waited for Morpheus’ arrival. I flicked on the television and switched between mindless programs waiting for his call. For two hours I waited. Pain left me, but I was wide awake. More than simply awake. I was as wired as B. B. King’s guitar in full concert.
I took an anti-anxiety pill and flicked off the television and waited again for Morpheus to beckon me. I closed my eyes and prayed and waited. I didn’t count sheep. I listened instead to night close around me. The fan whirred softly at my bedside. Outside, below and beyond my window, tree frogs croaked out a chorus crying for rain. Had it rained, they would have raised their voices in praise of the fresh, sweet liquid.
Cicadas rubbed their legs together and made their joyful noises to their mates. Funny how things so small—frogs smaller than your fist, cicadas no larger than your thumb—can make so much racket. They blast through the night like a foghorn on steroids. They sing because they’re alive another day. They sing because it’s their life. A life of song. A song that tells me that, right here, right now, "God’s in his heaven. All’s right with the world.”
Wednesday, May 26, 2004
© Diane Stewart all rights reserved
www.queenpower.com
Last night when I went to bed, Pain was my bedfellow. I took a pill to ease his hold on me and waited for Morpheus’ arrival. I flicked on the television and switched between mindless programs waiting for his call. For two hours I waited. Pain left me, but I was wide awake. More than simply awake. I was as wired as B. B. King’s guitar in full concert.
I took an anti-anxiety pill and flicked off the television and waited again for Morpheus to beckon me. I closed my eyes and prayed and waited. I didn’t count sheep. I listened instead to night close around me. The fan whirred softly at my bedside. Outside, below and beyond my window, tree frogs croaked out a chorus crying for rain. Had it rained, they would have raised their voices in praise of the fresh, sweet liquid.
Cicadas rubbed their legs together and made their joyful noises to their mates. Funny how things so small—frogs smaller than your fist, cicadas no larger than your thumb—can make so much racket. They blast through the night like a foghorn on steroids. They sing because they’re alive another day. They sing because it’s their life. A life of song. A song that tells me that, right here, right now, "God’s in his heaven. All’s right with the world.”
Wednesday, May 26, 2004
© Diane Stewart all rights reserved
www.queenpower.com
posted by Allyn Evans at 3:34 PM
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