#38

Music drags me from sleep, pulls me in to gray daylight filtered through a thick canvas curtain, rudely reminding of responsibility while soft sheets beckon back. Fingertips make the decision to snooze and I wrap the blankets around me like a tulip ready to bloom. I am in a bar, and a band is playing. One musician plays a tiny guitar that he has crafted himself, the chords he plays plucked by buttons he has fashioned at home. He is jovial and chats familiarly with the crowd, of which I am part. I turn to the bar, and my mother is sitting with a plate of eggs half-cooked and yolks transparent. I want to caution her not to eat them, and glance nervously across the bar at a pretty young woman also eating a plate of eggs, well done and over easy. My brother is suddenly seated next to me. He warns me that I’m running out of time, and looks over at the young woman. I begin to tell him that there’s still time, as music once again pulls me back, back into my softly lit room. It is time to rise.