Tonight, there will be no sound - no tossing and turning, no constant whir of fan blades as they slice through thick moist air. There will be only the sweet sound of snoring - a rarity in these last few weeks, when the threat of summer suffocation and the anxiety of another storm have plagued our nights.
On this night, the sound of the distant train doesn't seem so close. On this night, the fear of a rough storm doesn't shake us. And on this night, the stresses of the day seem to evaporate.
Tonight, there will be rest for all.
We have air conditioning tonight, so we will be able to sleep without the threat of dehydration via endless drippage.
And Jenny, who is cutting more teeth, has her Advil to keep her painfree for six to eight hours - long enough to make it to Dreamland where she can ignore the achiness of her new teeth.
And because we can close the windows tonight, Jenny will not hear the stupid dogs, or the loud radio, or the train whose whistle echoes in the valley below. And Tim and I will not hear the once peaceful tinkling of the windchimes in the back yard.
Tonight, we shall sleep the peaceful sleep of men and women everywhere who have acheived that heavenly state of giddiness that preceded all out exhaustion.
For now, good night . . . See you in the morning.
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