A Story of The Night

I spend an extraordinary amount of time staring at the ceiling - at two o'clock in the morning.
Falling over my eye bags every morning reminds me that this nocturnal activity is possibly not healthy. There appears to be no antecedent to this behaviour as even the street louts who like to drink cans of bourbon on my front fence are usually in bed by two, or have stumbled onto someone else's front lawn for a bit of shut-eye. The hoons in their lowered suped-up nitro-fuelled muscled-up penis substitutes have gone from doing circlework at the intersection outside to laying rubber on the highway, or smoking crack.  The residual trash have taken their domestic disputes from the street to behind their trailer doors.  So all is quiet.  And yet, I'm awake, watching shadows ebb and flow across the ceiling rose.
I rise to check the children as I'm certain that my wakefullness must be because my sleeping children have been spirited away by kidnappers. Or perhaps one of them has stopped breathing. I must get some perverse kick out of frightening myself.  Humphrey just thinks I'm weird.
All is well.  Their room is quiet and close.  They sleep, open-mouthed, with their limbs flung asunder and bedclothes hither and thither.  I kiss their warm little faces and wonder if it is possible to infuse them with a sense of love and well-being with each dry little peck.  I also become acutely aware that these precious little people are only mine for a short time and I don't want to miss a minute of their lives.  This makes me want to cry.  Instead I shuffle into the kitchen and flick on the kettle. My eyes scunch up in protest at the bright fluorescent lights.  I look like Gollum's mother.
Stirring the decaf I wait for the computer to boot.  At least ebay is awake at this hour of the morning. I check emails and half-heartedly spy on facebook.  I shuffle back to my bed.  One side of it remains unrumpled.  I realise I am lonely, missing that great warm lump of Humphrey - who should be in my bed each night, but for reasons beyond our control is not.  It could be worse, I say to myself.  Yes, it could be much worse.  I pick up my cheap supermarket reading glasses. One long-broken arm waggles uselessly, but I deftly flick it up over my ear. We have an understanding.  I won't sit on them again, provided the arm doesn't completely separate from the rest of the frame.  Settling back into a pile of pillows I smooth open a tattered page of David Copperfield.  It has been read many times, but still the characters can be conjured into my bedroom - the dumpy, apple-cheeked Peggotty, ominous Murdstone and pathetic Clara whom I'd like to pummel with a steak tenderiser.  It is 3am.  Should I make school sandwiches or should I try to sleep? Perhaps I should go and clean behind the washing machine.  Have been meaning to do that for some time.  I decide instead to settle David Copperfield on the bedside table, switch off the light and roll over.  I run my hands over the cool smooth sheets that should be warm with Humphrey....and wait for sleep.