full circle.

I was dreaming, and then I woke up. The room was not quite dark enough to obliterate the shapeless shapes and the shades of black that seemed to crawl with the spots that appeared from straining my eyes.
If there were a mother nearby, she certainly would have heard my unrest in the night. But that room is empty.
If there were a father nearby, he certainly would have noticed my sweat-stained bed. But that room is empty.
If there were parents, sleeping in a bed, pushing down pillows with their refined, developed heads,
And a wife’s hair pressed into the husband’s shoulder,
And a shifting, midnight kiss,
They surely would have come, come rushing in the room at the sound of the only son, the only child, screaming.
But those rooms are separate, and one is always empty.
So I sewed my eyelids shut with a thread from the doll somewhere near my bed,
the dolls that gave no comfort when lit with devil darkness, black blood in scarlet shades down their stitched faces.
So I sewed my eyelids shut, and hoped for morning.
Morning came, and brought with it sight, but no change.
Mother, those bottles are always empty. Father, those filters are always lit.

So I grew, pushing down pillows with my refined, developing head,
and sewing my eyelids whenever the night would call, and spots would crawl, until I left that house,
Leaving the impression of depressions in the carpet in the hall, I closed the door hard and I was gone.
For good, I said, and married her, and carried her through poverty and pregnancy,
And mid-west-east-coast residency, and now I had a counterpart who could see the spots, and sweep them away.
And I never needed threaded needles again.

Then 1989, the third in line, arrived as our first boy,
And I woke up. I was dreaming. The room was not quite dark enough to obliterate the forming shapes and shades of gray that dragged their claws across my eyes.
Their mother is nearby; she certainly should have heard my unrest in the night.
But that side is empty.
If we were parents, sleeping in a bed, pushing down pillows with our refined, life-giving heads,
And her lips, pressing to my shoulder,
Meeting my shifting, midnight kiss,
Then surely we would wait at the edge of the covers, for any stir, murmur, or breath held too long, and rush to their heads, and keep their eyes closed.
Not sewing them shut, but relaxed, and reposed.
Morning came, and brought with it light, but no color.
Mother, your phrases are always empty. Father, your sleepless nights never quit.

So I tried gluing them shut, with some glue made from Atlantic sea salt and a pearl from the street, and the three younger children, that brought us to six.
I tried gluing them shut, but those shapeless shapes and growing grays dragged claws across my eyes, and tore them apart, and forced me to stare at the room that was not quite dark enough to go back to sleep, not quite dark enough to pretend I wasn’t there, not quite dark enough to hide the threaded needle I had kept for years, unused.
So I sewed my eyes shut.
And while my children grew, pushing down pillows with their developing heads, I was sleepless again.
So I sewed my eyes shut.

I was dreaming, and then I woke up. The room is bright, a sickening, perfect afternoon that reminds me I’m alone.
If there were a mother nearby, she would scold me for wasting my day.
But her room is empty. She waits out the rest of her life with others too hard to take care of.
If there were a father nearby, he would be smoking behind this window.
But his room is empty. His grave is full.
I feel the pressure of my aging, grey-scale head, pressing into the pillow on my aging bed, and I think of the family I do not have.
I think of how I lost my mind trying to be everything, to everyone.
So I sewed my eyes shut.