That night, when he was too awake again, my father said to
me: Sleep, and greet the quiet. Let these hours coat the
too-bright moments of waking time. Your eyes were once my
eyes, and so I know that they will sometimes roam instead of
close, roam to keep from closing, overfilled with wanting. Still,
sleep, and if you must crowd that gentle space with dreams, let them drift
not back over the falls and eddies of days past, but rather, downriver, to
the calm hollows ahead. Minds settle with the years, like sand into
dunes. So soon, you and I will let our turmoils and
desires sink beneath ourselves, at rest, at peace, at
last. And what soft comfort that will be, daughter, to drift as
two waves, side by side, to join all others’ in that
slow stilling in the desert.
