Sleepers

Most of my friends complain about interrupted sleep.  As one ages it becomes less straightforward-- the biology of it, I suppose. And for those of us in New York City apartments, waking, we often hear our neighbors above-- more often now that they are aging, and sleep no doubt in separate rooms.. one walks around, whatever... we invent narratives.

When I was small I thought love meant you slept together in a bed; I'd imagine the scenario-- it was chaste and romantic. I was one of those children who tucked myself in at night with a menagerie of stuffed animals... giraffes and lions and Yogi Bears and Pinocchios-- Raggedy Anne and other squishy creatures with sad eyes.  Recently there was a piece in the Times about adults and their stuffed sleep companions. Not that I pass judgment. In fact the whole issue has become a major industry-- the way food is so complicated-- now it's customized mattresses and the science of blankets and temperatures-- sound machines and gourmet sheets.  It's a lot, as they say on television.

Many of my friends no longer sleep with their significant other. Together they toss and turn and worry; they blame their partner for insomnia.  Whenever I've had a long-term relationship, sleeping together was essential.  Break-ups meant re-acclimating to sleeping separately; this alone was difficult and occasionally the habit lingered and we'd 'cheat' and spend an occasional night together.  It was confusing and reassuring at once.  But it wasn't just sex, it was the intimacy of sleep.  Even the old one night stands... sometimes I longed to stand staring out of a hotel window, anticipating the strangeness of someone under sheets.  One night on the road I crawled in bed with one of the roadies and he told me things no one had ever told me.  It was like we enacted some scene from a play that had been written just for us; it felt significant and deeply affecting.  Neither of us discussed it afterward.  

Now that these things are mostly in my past, I rummage through them occasionally, to remember who I have been, where and with whom.  Sometimes I have these dreams, although I am generally sleeping with a book these days... and I awake listening to my neighbors who are sleeping alone in a common space, who live separate lives now, as many of us do.  My own father used to fall asleep with the television on; in those days the programming ended at a certain point.  If I were awake I'd hear the national anthem, and if I peeked in, the screen would show those horrid stripes until dawn. No one dared turn it off.

Being awake in the 21st century and checking programming in overnight hours, there are myriad reruns of old sitcoms and TV dramas.  Sex and the City repeats endlessly.  It occurs to me that this is calming for adults-- the way our kids would watch Thomas the Tank Engine videos hundreds of times... over and over. Stressed out people anesthetize themselves with familiar old shows-- memories, visions of New York when they were happier or younger.  Maybe this helps them sleep.

This afternoon, in the rain, I passed the new uptown Barnes and Noble store; the window is filled with pretty much the same childhood classics I read over and over at bedtime: The Hungry Caterpillar, Thomas the Tank Engine... there were dolls and stuffed animals of these same familiar characters-- Elmo, whose name my son pronounced with this very southern accent... the Wild Things, soft train cars with happy faces. Standing beside me was a young British woman from Manchester, with a little girl who was-- yes, holding out her arms to me.  I was surprised-- it was raining-- they were wet, as I was. English people are more accustomed to these drizzles and don't always bother with an umbrella. But children are not so friendly these days-- nor are mothers post-pandemic anxious for strangers to touch their babies.  This child-- maybe 18 months-- was smiling in the most extravagant way at me, and insisting I take her-- me with my terrible arm, I was unable to really lift her properly. She's friendly, her Mom explained, but not like this.  It was as though she recognized me-- there was this absolutely palpable connection and a kind of love I hadn't felt in so long, it brought me to tears-- this lovely little Irish face with sparkling eyes... too young to care about material things.. and there we were:  me, tearing up in the rain, feeling so connected to this child and my lost  days of baby-rearing. The mother, too-- she started to cry... maybe her Mom was overseas or had died... I thought of possibilities... and we looked in the window, and we repeated the names of the characters... as though we were family... and the child-- not quite up to speech, was just happily holding her arms out and trying hard to hug and kiss me as much as I could manage.

It was clear the baby did not want to stop this game with me... and finally I made an awkward excuse and left.  The entire window display imprinted in my visual mind, I went down toward the East River. On the way, I passed St. Monica's church which seemed to beckon; the glass doors were open and the music seeping out. It was the six o'clock mass... and I stood in the back while the priest read the daily passage and proclaimed that God is love.. and it made sense to me, having been lessoned by the little Irish girl.  This is it... the whole church singing and proclaiming, yes... Hallelujah, etc... all of us sleepers in various rooms, underneath the same celestial ceiling... receiving a kind of reprieve, a kind of love.