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.