Sleep

I hear the quiet murmur of the cool-mist humidifier through the baby monitor and its sound is smooth and trance-like. I can see why it helps you sleep. My eyelids, too, are slowly closing to that hum and I have to shake my head to wake myself. It amazes me how delicious sleep is for you, it’s nourishment really, and I yearn to sleep like that again. The eight-interrupted-hours-a-night just don’t compare to your ten-plus hours a night and the two-and-a-half nap-time hours. That siesta time is the greatest escape; I especially thought so when you were still developing in my womb and I could partake in a siesta at my then-office. I would close the door and surrender to the lull of pregnancy exhaustion for a good fifteen minutes. That was enough to lift the fog and renew my strength for the next few hours.

My father, your grandfather, used to take a daily siesta once he had to stay home. He was sick, you know. He had many heart, circulation ailments, and they soon impeded his ability to work. So, he was the stay-at-home parent and would always pick me up from school, walking, when I was in elementary school since it was a walkable distance; later, when I started middle and high schools, he would be home when the bus dropped my off since then we lived farther away from my schools. During the summer or holidays, I would stay home with my father, and every day, after lunch, my father took his noon-time siesta. I usually welcomed this because that meant that I had at least an hour of uninterrupted me time. I could watch tv, I could read, I could play and let my imagination soar. When I got older, I sometimes would take advantage and hop on the 71 bus all the way to International Mall where I would spend an afternoon of window shopping and trying on clothes I couldn’t afford. I would take a book with me for the bus ride, and in between words I would peek at my fellow bus-mates; I would imagine what lives they held and who they were.

Along with the siestas, my father loved music, as I see you do, too. When I was younger, he listened to Piero mostly, among others like Garzon y Collazos. Many of Piero’s songs detailed the type of life my father yearned for, a life of the simple past he called it – when everything was not complicated by technology or laziness, according to him. A few of his favorites were De Vez En Cuando Viene Bien Dormir (Every now and then it’s good to sleep), Fumemos un Cigarrillo (Let’s smoke a cigarette), and Mi Viejo (My Old Man). These were staples of his life.

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