Insomnia
A midnight truck shakes
the clock awake. I remember
my father opening the door
to my head, a lullaby on the piano
tying this memory to kindness.
These days, he struggles
to fall asleep, counts magnitudes
of sheep frozen on the walls
of his aching bedroom. Snow gravitates
outside the window in slow spirals. A car
trims the white edges of the street, muffling
the hip-hop of my century. My father is now
the roundness of a doorknob, but once
he was its urgency. Each night, he waits
for my gentle knock to sound, and each night
we embrace our cavemen past—
leaning into the other’s tales, crafting
out of the hours, a lullaby.
Excellent Debmalya.Please keep it up.