THE PUBLIC SHELF

Open when you can't sleep

I know exactly what time it is where you are, because I know you. It's somewhere after two, and your brain has started its rerun of every awkward thing you've said since 2014.

So here's something to replay instead.

When we were kids and the power went out during that storm, you were the one who wasn't scared. You were seven. You got the flashlight from the kitchen drawer, built a fort out of couch cushions, and told me stories about a dog who drove a bus until I fell asleep with my head on your knee. I never told you I was awake for most of it. I just didn't want you to stop.

You've been taking care of people in the dark your whole life. Tonight it's your turn.

Put the phone face down. Turn the pillow to the cold side. Breathe in for four, out for six, the way the nurse taught Mom. Name five things you can hear.

And if none of it works, call me. I don't care what time it is. I'll tell you a story about a dog who drives a bus. I still remember how it goes.

Liz

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