Hyssop

At some point in my early 40s, I woke up one Saturday morning, tied my robe, and realized that I had to make my bed before heading to the kitchen for coffee. You’re officially anal, I noted, yanking wrinkles from the fitted sheet of my bed. It was a distinct mark in an otherwise gradual transition; as responsibility proliferated, so increased my need for a fastidious home, until one day I couldn’t leave my bedroom if the sheets were mussed.

It was also around this time I realized sharing a bed with my husband was a form of domestic idiocy. We’d wake each other through the night and start the morning annoyed. My husband agreed that though we’d receive some pearl-clutching around splitting the marital bed, there was no good reason to continue sharing one. He took nicely to his own double, unworried the glowing orb of his lamp would keep anyone awake as he read into the night, his snoring contained within the walls of his own room.

Alone in my bed, gloriously unbothered, I began dreaming again. The most memorable, a house on a hill made entirely of purple flowers, its surface bristling with bees. I woke from the dream elated, positive it symbolized the gifts of unbroken rest. As I made my bed, the first lines of a poem sprouted, pushing through my freshly sleep-tilled brain, and I scribbled them down. At this rate, I’d have a collection within weeks, ready for editing!

But a few weeks later, my daughter crawled into bed with me, terrorized by a nightmare involving a gymnasium of children thirsty for her blood, her grubby toes probing for pockets of warmth. I pulled her close and she wrapped her arms around my neck, falling asleep after a burble of unintelligible words and a single, great sob.

The next morning, I stared at her placid face, the air in my bedroom marbled with cold from the open window. If I wanted my dreams back, I’d have to kick her out. As if she could hear my thoughts, she grimaced in her sleep and reached a hand out, her face smoothing into stillness once it landed on my belly.

Getting her back into her bedroom after a stint in my bed was always a challenge. Though I never got good rest in her company, having her close gave me a sense of comfort, especially in the violet hours when even a small noise could wake me, leaving me pulsing with cortisol and reaching for my aluminum bat. My daughter, on the other hand, slept deeply, a princess protected by a dragon who would immolate any threat, no matter how small.

Hyssop overtook every single one of your garden beds, my husband observed a few weeks after my daughter had crawled into my bed. He was staring into the backyard while his coffee brewed, his blue eyes lit like lamps, cheeks the color of new peonies.

I rubbed my eyelids and squinted at the flower beds.

I can’t bring myself to pull it, I said, yawning. The bees love it.