I crawl into bed in the dark, on a cold winter’s night. I listen to the sound of my husband snoring softly beside me. I can hear the faint sound of the twin’s sleep music in their room across the hall. I hear my youngest sigh in his sleep, his fingers grapple with the flip-lid on his sippy-cup that he closed earlier as he drifted off. I hear him sip, and sigh as he falls back into slumber. I hear his brother in the cot beside him cough with the dregs of a drawn out cold that finally seems to be leaving.
My husband rolls over, and for a while his snoring stops. I hear a siren speed past on the main road at the end of our street. My husband rolls again, and his breathing deepens. Another siren, then a truck rumbles past.
I hear the beep of my eldest son’s swatch. I didn’t know his watch beeps. It’s analogue. It’s dark and I want sleep and I don’t know what I’m hearing. I don’t hear my daughter, she sleeps as silent as the night, at the end of the house in the room next to her brother’s with the silent analogue watch that beeps in the night.
And the house settles, the traffic stops, my family sleeps. All I hear is the sounds of the night, and my husband snoring softly beside me. And I stare at the ceiling in the dark, wishing for sleep, and thinking these thoughts that I know I won’t remember in the morning.
And I get up and write these words in the dark about the sounds of sleep that I hear while lying awake in the dark wishing for sleep.