Asleep

I am at my parents' house, my childhood home, for the weekend, as yesterday--February 6th--my grandmother turned 93.  Whenever I stay here, certain situations, or even objects, trigger memories that I am certain would otherwise remain submerged.  The ones that really interest me are the most mundane, as collectively they give me a shadowy version of my former self, a version of family life from decades past with a little more meat on its bones.

This evening, as I was preparing a dish for the brunch we are hosting for my grandmother tomorrow morning, I couldn't open a large jar of artichokes. I tried my parents, but they couldn't open it either. I went upstairs to see if Ben or Alison, who had both gone up to bed, were still awake. The light was off in my old room, so I didn't try Ben. Alison's light was on, so I cracked the door and peeked in. Suddenly I remembered so many nights like this: Alison under her covers surrounded by stuff, eyes closed, mouth slightly open, television on, lights blazing all over the room. 

This, I maybe would have remembered regardless, without seeing the scene again live, but somehow I feel like the next part, my part, would not have come back to me so distinctly. I would walk as quietly and lightly on my feet as was possible to the standing lamp, knowing I had one shot and one shot only to turn it off and exit more softly than I had come. If I stumbled, or breathed too loudly, or made the mistake of turning off the television in one fell swoop instead of a slow diminishing of volume and slower click of the dial, Alison would wake up, eyes flashing, then narrowed, furious. 

And the feeling. That, too, would have been harder to access. I felt it tonight: a vulnerability on her part, an unconscious need to sleep in the light, a protectiveness on my part, a desire for her to sleep in silence and peaceful darkness, a fear of her waking and startling in all that light, all that noise.  Somehow, a sense of connection.