It’s 1:10 am, and I’m about to go to bed.
I love going to bed, more than nearly anything in the world. I usually stay up late and do book stuff, and when I can work no longer, I shut off my computer, enter a black bedroom and slide into bed. My wife has been asleep for two hours, so she’s almost certainly warm and under the covers. I cherish that heat, because it’s real. Nothing artificial about it.
Life moves fast, and we tend to overlook the little things. I remember when my daughter Casey was 8- or 9-months old, I’d take her outside on a cool spring day and watch in awe as a breeze came along. She’d lift her chin into the wind and just feel it. Her expression wasn’t one of fear or pleasure, but simply … satisfaction. A little girl enjoying the wind.
So now, thanks to that, I enjoy the wind. I enjoy the sound of rain on my air conditioner—pop! pop! pop! pop! pop!—as we’re all inside, safe and comfortable. I enjoy putting on my slippers on an especially cold day. I enjoy that first sip of hot chocolate. I enjoy being in a restaurant, going to the bathroom, returning and finding a hot plate of food sitting there, waiting. I enjoy going to Target and buying one of their $10 novelty T-shirts. I enjoy hearing my 3-year-old son tell his joke, “What did the pepperoni say to the pizza?” The answers always change, and they never make sense. But it doesn’t matter.
I enjoy turning on the TV and catching five minutes of Forrest Gump. I enjoy a milk shake. I enjoy shaving my head. I enjoy flying a kite with my kids. I enjoy old photographs. I enjoy a house filled with friends and relatives. I enjoy my dog Norma making her odd wheezing sound. I enjoy my nephews calling me, “Uncle Jeffie.” I enjoy watching a movie I knew nothing about—and loving it. I enjoy comebacks—Stallone in Cop Land, Ottis Anderson with the Giants. I enjoy a back scratch from my dad, trips to Marshall’s with my mom, the way my brother gives voices to his cats.
And now I’m going to bed.
It’ll be warm.
