In the morning. After midnight. He would awaken to noises of the streets below. People coming home from taverns. Cops cruising the avenues. Youth wasted.
He heard cats clawing trashcans. The garbage pick up. Diesels moving backwards. Making that warning sound of beep, beep, beep.
It was these noises that kept him awake. Didn’t even try to sleep. He’d read his Bible and curse at the sounds of outside. Was the same thing every night. Followed by a few hours of absolute silence.
The old man would place the good book on the table next to his chair and stretch out just a bit. Curled up with a blanket.The lamp turned down. And for three hours he could sleep. He could dream.
These dreams this man had. Vivid images of how things used to be; a house, garden, dogs, and a wife. The woman he shared his life with. She was his rock. In all his times of instability, she kept them together. Made life easier. With her, he slept throughout the night.
But, angels come and go. They’re only in our lives for a short time, he said to himself on her day of rest. Her ashes sat up on the mantle. Undisturbed in an urn with Mother Mary on it. She had gone.
The sun would wake him. Along with birds chirping, dogs barking, and diesels running through the streets. Early morning dew on the window glass. He wished night would last longer. He remembered his dreams. He always remembered her.