estes nights

a grandfather clock is an insomniac's worst nightmare. when i can't sleep at night, the last thing i want to know is the time. how much has passed. how much is left before the sun comes up. before i have to wake up again. before i have to face the world and a day dragging my feet still planted in the hours behind me that should have been spent asleep. but in the stately presence of my grandfather's grandfather clock, every quarter hour is accounted for. every restless series of turns pulling one more chime into its wake, notifying me, unequivocally, of the time.

but the night is brilliant outside my loft – the mountains visible under tonight's half-full moon and a star moves quietly in the center of the black rectangle of window. the star shimmers and shifts under my gaze – refreshingly optimistic, reassuring me in her sweet and playful dance. this is a lighter kind of comfort than what was bestowed a few nights ago during a run that drove me deep into old heart ache. i was under a clear sky and a thin sliver of a moon that was reassuring in a way no human being has ever been for me. so full and clear and wise despite her crescent spareness. so soft. so certain. god, that certainty hurts me in all its hope and strength.

i recall exactly when the night sky began speaking to me. just a little over a year ago on my flight to paris when it delivered not only a shooting star and aurora borealis, but a clear message of truth and hope as well. i only pray the message, constant since that first streak across the sky, is correct.