I’m awake in the middle of the night after falling asleep early from exhaustion. Stella crawled into my bed at some point with stuffed animals in tow. The cat is sleeping soundly at our feet. This would normally feel like comfort and serenity but not tonight.
Each day feels like three. So many stickie notes stuck to the wall of my kitchen so I can make sense of the numerous tasks at hand. Their bright colors belying their purpose. Two columns. The things that I’ve taken care of, I hope, and those that still need completion.
With no job and an unemployment check weeks away I’m in the middle of a move because rent can’t be paid. Lindsay and I, still friends, will merge our households together in order to better weather this storm. To better meet our daughters needs.
Underlying it all, the fear of getting sick. The fear of not surviving.
In a few hours I will return to the process of packing and moving more things. There will be more phone calls to make, more jumping through hoops in order to forestall debt, all in the pursuit of putting life on hold until I can once again find balance.
Awake in the middle of the night.
Waiting to find that deep sleep of serenity and hope. It will come. Not today, or in a week, or in a month even. But it will return. It always does. And with it will be a little girl with stuffed animals and a cat purring contentedly and no more stickie notes.
father at fifty 