Awake

She is awake again. It is 3:22 AM. Her grandmother's oak wall clock swings it's brass pendulum  rhythmically, consistent. She hears the faint tick, tick, tick counting the minutes, hours. A row of tiny green LED lights illuminate the kick space under her desk nearby, evidence the wireless service functions even at this hour. There are many electronic lights: the TV logo glows, tiny blue computer power indicator, the coffee pot clock in the kitchen down the hall, a bright blue light even glows on the blender. They disrupt the dark, an abnormality that disturbs her.
Outside the Rottweiler across the street barks, and she knows someone is in the neighborhood. A car slides slowly by, and a plop--skid sound can be heard as the newspaper is tossed onto her driveway.  She relaxes into the pale green denim couch, and the springs creak, feather pillows condensing under her weight. Her favorite spot is worn and comforting. Reaching over, she pulls her minky afghan onto her lap, disturbing the sleepy little black house-dog beneath. The Doxie-mutt scootches over and noses under her robe, insistent on owning the warmest part of her lap. She strokes the canine fur, feels the soft, smooth coat and firm little body that burrows closer in response. Tick, tick, tick.
The scent of jasmine wafts in through the open window on a breeze, surprising her: a heady perfume reward for hours spent in the garden. In the bedroom behind her, a snoring man she promised her life to some 30 years ago disturbs her thoughts. He has changed: evolved, become a stranger. She has changed, too. She has splochy peach colored crepe paper with freckles where smooth, tanned arm skin once resided, and the flesh of her pasty thighs is jiggly and soft. the skin below her chin sags, and sticks to her chest below. She wears streaks of gray in her hair, and has given up the weave or Clairol to disguise it. Tick, tick, tick.
This house, once full of wonderful noisy children, now holds relics.  There was a time when she couldn't go to the bathroom without numerous toddlers in tow. She now has the respite she once craved, but no longer wants. The daughter off looking for her future, the sons with wives and heartaches of their own. In the silence she remembers them and breathes a prayer for each. Tick, tick, tick.
There is too much dark time at 3:22 AM to remember the losses: the daughter in law she loved for 18 months before wicked cancer stole her, the grandson at 27 months floating in the pool with no life in him. She aches for the things God has allowed, and for the healing he did not. Sleepiness sets in, and she leans back.  Closing eyes to electronic cacophony and memories, she drifts off to sleep to the swinging pendulum clock's tick, tick, tick.