It’s another late night, and I’m lying awake in bed. I can hear the clock ticking in the bathroom. My husband is snoring on his side of the bed, and although I like to tease him and complain, I should be honest here. I like listening to the rhythm of his breathing. Inhale. Exhale. Sometimes I’m pretty sure it registers on the Richter scale, but most of the time it’s quite gentle. Inhale. Exhale. Keeping time with the clock in the bathroom.
Adding to the nocturnal symphony is my dog, who has chosen my left shoulder for her pillow tonight. Her breath comes in little snorts, and her feet are twitching. Some nights she dreams of chasing things — probably balls and squirrels — and she barks in her sleep. It’s all I can do to keep from laughing out loud, but eventually she wakes herself up and — shooting me a confused glance — moves to lie down at three foot of the bed. The cats are around here someplace, but for now they’re being stealthy.
To be honest, I know that this isn’t the most exciting thing I have ever written. And continuing in the vein of truth, I don’t really care that much. Because, you see, it is the act of writing itself, in these moments of solitude in the midst of my family, that is my silent treasure.