In the throes of insomnia, I sit in the kitchen, alone. The only sounds around are wind chimes clashing hastily in the bitter, negative-degree January wind, and the bubbling of spaghetti sauce on the stove. I never conform to 'appropriate' times to do things. So, venturing to the kitchen to make sauce at 345 a.m. isn't anything new.
The entire house is being rattled and whipped by the howling winds on the other side of these walls. It sounds like ghosts wheezing and gasping violently for a final breath. This is not disturbing me in the least. In fact, I am finding comfort in this solitude and in the thoughts of unearthly apparitions parading about. Any movement I make is reverberated against the nothingness that surrounds me. It is an old friend - one that you only really enjoy seeing once or twice a year; enjoy it, nonetheless.
Copyright K. Anne Smith
