Dog day's night

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 Dog day’s night 

I am sleeping in the front bedroom, because I don’t sleep – I only wander in and out of dreams wandering in and out of me. Apparently, I talk more at night than during the day now. Roz sleeps in our bedroom, so she can sleep; and Uncle Albert sleeps in the guest room.

This morning the dog came into my room. For some minutes he sat sentry at the front window, squinting through the slats of the shutters. Apparently satisfied, he left, and I could hear him rolling around on the rug in Roz’s room, snorting.

     The next I heard, Roz was taking his leash off the hall tree at the bottom of the stairs. She told him to sit. I heard her fastening the leash; I heard him shake himself; I heard them leave.

     I heard them come back. They came up the stairs. He came back into my room. She stood at the door. “I’m going now,” she said.

The dreams are not frightening, but utterly confusing. I am constantly trying to find my way – to the airport, to the train station, to a meeting, a party. I know where I am and I know the way, but every time I set out the landmarks begin changing. When I stop, I know where I am and I know the way. When I set out again, I am lost. I stop: “This way, then. Clearly.” I see it. I set out. But when I look up: the drug store should be on the other side of the street. I stop, close my eyes, take a breath, and turn around. I set out again.

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