In the wee morning hours, my course is officially finished. I raced the deadline to the shore of middle of the night and turned in my pages. It feels like a laboring and delivery, but backwards.

I fall into bed abuzz, light and comparatively wide awake next to my snoring boy next to my snoring husband. My son’s foot is extended sideways so that to fit in bed, I must wear my arm cramped, bent, leaned up against his fleshy warm foot. I am writing of life, death, and birth— all the heat of chemical change. I am wide awake from telling with my heart and eyes, seeing with my pen.

It is good that it is spring. There is much I want to do. But first, to sleep.