I'm lying on an old homemade quilt on a bed in a room that isn't mine. It feels cool against my arms and bare feet. I can almost feel my cells seeping into its fibers. The flannel pillow case carries the scent of its surroundings. It is soft and worn, having carried its dreamer through many nights. Light filters through the reds and greens from the stained glass on the opposite wall.
I hear the voices of friends, and laughter. I hear them entertaining the babies.
The ceiling fan over me spins steadily over my head, the blades sending down rhythmic blasts of cool air from the white ceiling. The whirring sounds to me like a drone of bees. As it whirs and hums, I consider: I'm tired, but sleep won't come. The time we have together is already slipping through our fingers.
I prop myself up on the bed, looking across the room. I see myself reflected over the prescription bottles, the dark glass jar encasing the candle that isn't burning. My body is ravenous for rest, but my soul is hungrier for them, their company, their conversation: these sisters spread out on a map, living on geographical points that refuse to touch.
I am getting up.