The lighter side of 4am

My mother lit automatic candles in the stairwell and living room to illuminate late-night wanderings, but the timers all flicker off by the time I creep down with a wakeful baby. She doesn't cry in the small hours - she makes small murmurs and creaky sounds and stares around with big dark eyes, and I stare back until I remember the box of Canadian tea in the kitchen. Sleep has never been easy for me - or much missed - and after 4am there isn't any point to waiting out the dawn. So I roll her up in the blanket my great-grandmother crocheted for me when I was born, step in all the least squeaky spots down the wood stairs, and put the kettle on with the whistle open so nobody wakes to a beeping microwave. Zenny gets her toe stuck in the eyelets of the blanket, and suddenly I can remember my own toes tangling in them - the brain's litter of deep old memory fragments is something to marvel at. I shoo a cat out of the bouncy seat and put it by the bathroom door with the baby in it. The glimpse of myself in the mirror is like seeing someone I don't really want to say hi to - the Teletubbie figure and round face I have spent so many years running away from, because fat-me was naive and self-conscious and lovesick, and thin-me can laugh over a beer and pretend not to be those things.

At 5:30, my mom comes downstairs. Still dark, still raining, and she sits in the rocking chair and sings to the baby while I make her a cup of coffee and refill my tea.

I'm a sentimental creature in the early mornings.