My Time by E. A. Mourn

My Time

I hear a baby cry, even when there is nothing making noise except the air conditioner and the refrigerator. I think somehow their cries are imprinted on my brain; much like the effect of a bright light on your eyes, long after they are closed.
This is my time, the nighttime. It is not the time for locating favorite stuffed owls gone missing or retrieving helium balloons that are clinging to the ceiling. Nor is it the time for responding to a variety of special requests such as “Don’t we have any bread to go with this?” or “But I like it when you make my sandwich. You make it so much better!”
When I was younger, I never longed for peace and quiet; but sought out chaos of one kind or another. I was a ready to experience everything all at once, pen in hand, ready to write. I wrote in bars, cars, on the beach, on cocktail napkins, sticky notes…anything and anywhere…and more often than not in the middle of extreme commotion. I did some writing alone too, but I craved excitement and the sensation of never being still.
Those days are behind me now and a lot has changed, but I still have my pen in hand, and quite often I still write on a paper towel, or napkin (or whatever is handy at the time), but usually instead of a napkin stained with beer, it is more likely to be covered in drool or baby food…or worse, but I won’t go there.
Now I wade through the chores of the day; the cleaning, cooking, preparing bottles, helping the restless nap, kissing boo boos, wiping noses, finding lost toys, etc., just so I can reap my reward of perfect solitude that only the night can bring.
It never fails to amaze me how I am instantly transported the second I settle down into my favorite chair at my computer. I am perfectly content here, and if I can manage to keep my eyes open, I will write one hell of a page (or maybe even two)!