The Dead of the Night

The dead of the night has always belonged to me.

After the traffic has surrendered.

After the last window has gone dark.

After the world falls silent.

There was a time when I sat in a rocking chair with a small life in my arms.

The house asleep.

Stars beyond the skylight.

The moon keeping watch.

Back then, I thought the night was teaching me how to live without sleep.
Years later, I would come to know other nights.

Nights measured not by feeding times, but by telephone calls.

Nights when fear arrived before words.

Nights when darkness seemed to stretch all the way across the country.

The stars remained.
The moon continued its patient orbit.
I did not.

These days, I still find myself awake long after I should be.
Drawn once again to the dead of the night.

Not because I am young.

Not because I am unscarred.

But because peace has returned in a different form.

Not the peace of innocence.

Something quieter.

Something earned.

The world asleep.

The stars beyond the window.

The moon keeping watch.

And me, grateful for the silence.