elizabethlevett

I am just living to be lying by your side.

Our bed is my lifeboat. Here are some things encountered on the voyage.

On falling asleep: When we were first married I would stare and stare as while you slept. Sometimes I thought you might wake up and see me watching you and take me in your arms. Sometimes I was judging you. Sometimes it was with fear that I watched you, as if at any moment I might blink and you would vanish. I felt then that love was very cruel to bring you to me and then remind me someday you’d be gone. Your sleep sometimes was hard and fitful, as if you battled an unseen enemy. I could feel your encircling grasp tighten as you began to fall away into dreams. This is how aging together is a kindness. These days, aside from some weird noises you make (almost like the Titanic scraping against the ice), you usually sleep more peacefully, not storming windmills so much anymore, a twin skiff floating with rolls and sighs in the next dock.

On kissing you good-night:  There is a flash of the silent and sacred in this gesture. It’s like saying a prayer. Morning kisses are different. Morning kisses are like morning in the South, a heady brew. They somehow taste of all the long travel of night. Good-night kisses are solemn promises in the dark to return again in the morning.

Night is a window to the silent and compassionate void. Being together means signing a contract with love, knowing that loss will be found in the fine print. They say you should never go to bed angry, but always make sure to kiss goodnight. I’d like to say I never go to bed pissed off and always mark the end of the day with a kiss, but that would be fibbing. I will say though, that on the few occasions when I have gone to sleep mad, I wake up realizing my foolishness. Somehow, I never have to ask you to forgive my temper. Just please don’t ever leave me if I haven’t kissed you goodnight.

On the economics of covers: It is possible for two people who love each other and are genuinely considerate during the day to become transformed by sleep into fierce territorial adversaries. If the night is cold and the covers seem narrow, we may clutch for dear life to our allotted half of the blanket whenever we sense in sleep the movement of the other in the direction opposite our own and the covers are going that way. Simply to lie down is to choose a side. Loving consideration gives way in sleep to the basic instinct to keep warm.

Once I pulled the covers tight around me as you moved over in bed, clinging in my half-sleep, struggling to keep my share. There was your pulse in the sheets I held in my hands. It startled me to realize the sensation of holding your heartbeat. For a little while I stayed awake, holding on to your dear life.

On Moving The Bed: When we first got married, we had a funny, and very faulty apartment. The floors were all slanted and the rooms were laid out strangely. We were very happy there because we were up on the third floor and there were views out every window. We could put the bed anywhere we wanted to–almost like camping. At one point we moved our bed head-first into a little alcove under a window. At night we could lie down together and look up at the moon. It was heaven to fall asleep like Wynken, Blynken, and Nod in their wooden shoe sailing off into a spray of stars.

One night when we were still in the old apartment there was a big winter rain storm outside. I remember falling asleep feeling warm and relaxed, safe and sound. In a dream I could sense the delicious darkness of a forest around me. Strangely, it seemed I could even feel the gentle rain as I slept. Suddenly, I realized I was being awakened. It was him was telling me that we had to get up and move the bed! What, now? What the hell for?! Well, because rain was pouring through an opening in the decrepit window frame and soaking my pillow and my face.

On Being Alone and then, later, Being Together: When he’s not here I eat alone and I can have anything I want, including the things he doesn’t like. I might eat smoked salmon or even just scrambled eggs for dinner. There are almost no dishes because it’s only me and I use things twice. There’s a lot less laundry and I take a long time on the phone. I take a long time in the shower and a long time on my hair. I have all the time in the world. I can sing really loud to my favorite songs, or watch a romantic movie, and I love to be alone.

When I lay me down to sleep alone I don’t love it so much. It’s true that when he’s not here I can stretch or roll as I please. In the morning I can make the bed before I even get up, smoothing the undisturbed folds around me, then slip out easily and it looks perfect.  When I get up there’s none of last night’s boots to trip over or glass of water to look for because it’s just me. But there are sounds at night in our house that make the dark hours less friendly than the daylight. Some sounds are reassuring–the rain, the refrigerator (since the landlord replaced the old spaceship one)–these do not jar me from sleep. Living in a city, though, you hear things sometimes at night that are scary, or at least potentially so. Cars screech outside, people fight or yell or cry. If he’s here, he always knows if a sound is really scary or not, sometimes without really waking up. I have decided there is safety in knowing he knows. After all, if it were anything to worry about, he’d get up and check. I tell myself that this has nothing to do with him being a man. It’s because he can hear better than I do. In any case, I do not lose sleep over noises when he’s here.

I remember years ago living in the old pink flamingo apartment with my girlfriends. Our place was so close to the cliffs that I became used to the sound of wind and waves in regular rocking at night. It used to help me fall asleep to listen. One steady roll. Being next to someone breathing can be like that too. When sleep is difficult, it’s hard to settle down the pounding heart and demons seem to tap at the window. I’ve been told to focus on my breathing to calm down. This never worked for me. When you are alone and you feel lonely or afraid, the sound of your heartbeat, your breathing, is unbearable. When you are in love, you listen to your lover breathe. It is unbelievable. You are lulled into blessed forgetting. You fall asleep.

When he’s here the table and the sink and laundry pile up so soon. The cat gets excited and runs up and down the hall and there’s a lot of laughing and loud noises and guy records on. When he’s here the house smells like soup or fresh cookies and the bed is a tangled mess. I sing really loud to our favorite songs or watch detective movies, or dance with him in the kitchen. I’m never afraid when it’s time to go to sleep and I love it the best when he’s here.

On Waking Up – The Laying on of Hands: One of the most delicious moments of peace and pleasure happens when we are both first awake in the morning. Sometimes I lie on my back and you reach over and lay a hand across my stomach. The warmth of you is my medicine. You said it’s like touching the belly of the Buddha.

An image of my parents from a long time ago floats through my waking dream. When I was small, my parents’ bed belonged to all of us in the morning. It was a comfortable and spacious place where we piled on to make plans, ask big questions, or just play with the dog. In my half-dream I see them now as they were in the last years of their lives. Her little body has all the sags and wrinkles of a woman who has lived yet he embraces her in a moment of absolute bliss. He brings his face close to hers and rings her with his arms. His eyes close and he smiles. He is home. I don’t know which of us derives greater comfort from the ritual laying on of hands. But I know that I am home. And so grateful.