Insomnia

© 2009 Karen Van Fossan, written at 3:44 a.m.

Once, not long ago, there lived a rosy, young woman. She loved nothing more in life than her apple tree. In Spring, she pressed her cheeks to the sweet, tender blossoms. In Summer, she danced in the moonlight with the shadow of her tree. In Autumn, she gathered bushels of the red, nourishing fruit.

In spite of her love of apples – or perhaps because of it – one particular Autumn, she couldn't sleep. “Crud!” she said, again and again. “It's 3:44 a.m., and I'm awake.”

At about the same time, there lived a purposeful, middle-aged woman. How she loved to run! In Spring, she liked to sprint among the tulips along her walk. In Summer, she went jogging between the tall and reaching daisies. In Autumn, she hurdled playfully over the asters.

In spite of her love of running – or perhaps because of it – one particular Autumn, she couldn't sleep. “Shoot!” she said, again and again. “It's 3:44 a.m., and I'm awake.”

At about the same time, there lived a powerful, elderly woman. She had been making pictures since she was three or four years old, and she had no intention of stopping now. In Spring, she filled her canvas with sweet, tender apple blossoms. In Summer, she painted lanky clumps of daisies in the garden. In Autumn, she put the final stroke on a portrait of herself.

In spite of her love of painting – or perhaps because of it – one particular Autumn, she couldn't sleep. “Glory!” she said, again and again. “It's 3:44 a.m., and I'm awake.”

I wonder, dear readers – can you help?