Postcards from Home #7: Chilled Cozy

Sometimes there seems to be no other time and place better than in my dreams to share and enjoy a fantastic adventure with you. But first I have to coax and conjure my oftentimes reluctant lover into my bed sheets. He teases me most when the nights grow sooner. He’s not really a man, but something, someone somewhere like it, soft and fuzzy as a cat, cool as quartz, and warm as melted caramel sticking to me as sweet as a holiday kiss. He’s the reason why getting into bed is a luxury, why I burn candles and bathe in perfume, why I must practice a nightly ritual of preparing as if for sex. But it is an intimate meeting with an invisible, elusive entity who provides me a fantasy togetherness I can never achieve with another human being. I hold onto him with my legs, knees, arms, and fingers. I roll over into him and feel his warmth breathe all over me as if he were really there. I cannot dream without him. He can only come in the dark. He is always gone with the light. So after the candlelight has burned sufficient and the air is heavy with scented wax, I blow out the flame and wait there, alone, holding him with my body like I do my blankets and pillows. I toss and turn in frustration and anticipation when he doesn’t come right away. How can I enter into the realm where I can see you again if he doesn’t take me?

I cannot rest until he comes. The longing is sweet and stinging, not too unlike the desire to reach the end of a book but to never come to the end of the story. I just need to get into the meat of it all. Dreaming is the cheapest way to travel. But I cannot go anywhere without my lover, Sleep. Only he can pull me away and carry me back. My bed is a vessel, a kind of cloud-ship that will float upward, there is no set time to be there for departure, yet there also is nothing stated in the unwritten contract between us that says he has to be here at my beck and call. The night is torment without him. I am chilled cozy enough for him, bundled up like a baby and weeping for his attention.

The nights he never comes makes the daylight ever more cruel. I have to make artificial night which makes my home seem to be in perpetual night. During the coldest days I fall into my most saddest hours where even closing my eyes and lying down just prolongs misery. But, oh, the pleasure I feel when I sink into the mattress and, without ritual or a lengthy wait, I land into his embrace!

I believe tonight is going to be one of those nights. He’s already assuring me, with a yawn, that I will meet you at the same time as last night, in the wooded clearing where we last played… faraway from today’s ice, where Lugh is always shining, in the summer without bugs, near the fields where the berries are full and ripe, and the deer are gentle and giant enough for riding.


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