Naptime

Remember kindergarten naptime? I vaguely recall a small, soft, worn, pilling pink blanket for my snoozes on the floor at Selzer School in Dumont. Isn't it funny to think that there was a time in our lives when naps were mandatory? When we would just lie down on the cold, hard floor next to people who were not family? I wish naps were enforced in my life now.

Wait, maybe they are.

Recently, I've started napping next to Dad's bed. During his six weeks at Englewood Hospital, I would sometimes pull up a chair and blanket and doze right off. I could tell he liked it. So did I. We both liked knowing I would be there when he woke up, and vice versa.

I have a big writing deadline that I still haven't met, and really wanted to muscle through a lot of it today. My editor is waiting. I thought I could swoop in and out of Van Dyk for a quickish visit on a rainy Friday at midday. I brought a roast-beef sandwich to share, and snack-size ice cream pops.

I told Dad I had to go, that my editor was getting antsy, and rightly so.

You don't have to go right now, Dad said. Why don't you take a nap?

So I pulled the chair over and we both fell fast asleep as the rain fell hard outside his window. We both snored very loudly. I could hear us sawing wood.

So now I have to work tomorrow. That will be hard. I have to put my shoulder to the grindstone on a Saturday, when I'd love to be doing other things.

But I will always have the memory of naptime on October 1, 2010, next to Dad.