Sometimes I wake just before my alarm and
rather than get out of bed,
rather than get up, I think
of everything I could do - all
the things I'll fix - the things
I'll repaint, the windows I'll replace,
the way I'll fix Noah's room, the
garden I'll plant, the things I'll cook
with the vegetables I'll grow.
I think about the trips we'll take this summer,
the camping we'll do, the way I'll advance
at work. Then, when the alarm's fake waves
sound for the fourth time, I'm too tired to rise.

It's dark.
The fan blows hot air.
Sweat beads on my skin.
Wide awake, naked and roasting in bed,
hoping the still night coughs up a breeze,
like the last chocolate at the bottom
of the box.

A baseball, night air
The slap sound of ball in mitt
Leaves rustling softly.

Have you ever stood,
in the evening,
in winter, snowflakes falling,
no wind,
at the bottom of a sledding hill,
looking up at the night sky,
stars showing faint between clouds,
and then looked down at the
upturned face of the little
boy beside you, hat pulled so
low it almost covers his wide,
innocent, brown eyes,
and seen him smile back up at you?

I sometimes remember places I've never been,
people I've never met, and things that happened
before I was born. These are not
past-life memories. It is my mind saying,
"get me the **** out of here".

Imagine a warm house in winter.
Frost on windows, like a veil
between you and the real world.

A soft light near a cozy chair.
A good book, a glass of beer.
Sounds of children down the hall.
          
Snowflakes in the night sky outside.
A bed waiting - a warm escape,
like a cocoon inside a cocoon.

It's that feeling of peace that I miss.

It's one hell of a cold night.
If bears were awake, they'd migrate.
My bed's warm, but it's only me in here,
wandering through thoughts not worth remembering.
I know I'm lucky to have survived this long,
but it doesn't always feel like it.

We taught you big words
when you were little - acoutrement and ubiquitous.
I used to kiss you just above
your tiny nose whenever I buckled you in,
and you'd talk - from the back seat
to the front seat, from our house
all the way to wherever we were going, you'd talk.
At night you'd snuggle next to me,
and I'd tell you stories till
one of us fell asleep.
And although I didn't see
the teen in the boy,
I still see the little
boy in the teen, and
I still sometimes almost
reach for your hand as we walk.

When thunder split the night sky,
and rain pounded the earth, dreams
pushed Avery to my bed: "Dad,
I can't sleep, can I sleep with you?"
Only barely awake I pulled the covers
aside to make room, then heard his
breathing next to me,
soft beneath the rain,
counterpoint to thunder,
only a small puff of wind,
but strong enough to push his ship
away from shore, heading toward the horizon.

"Are you cold" I asked
Myles, skinny, four, standing
by the water.

"Yes. But I don't care," he said,
shivering slightly, blue-lipped and
smiling.

Then he splashed back in.