Pickup Sticks

I crashed into my hotel bed and prayed for sleep, but true sleep never came. Instead of rest, I dreamed, and in my dream, I stood on a beach.

Sand squished between my toes, and waves crashed in the background, but the sun hid behind clouds and bitter winds blew. Sand Island: I recognized this place.

I’d rode the mail-boat here during Dani’s and my first international trip five years ago.

Instead of sand, though, sticks covered its shores.

I picked up sticks one after another.

When the beach was clear, I looked up.

There were ways more.

Days and years passed, as I prayed for the end and prayed for a morning that never came.

~

The outside world filtered in.

Someone slammed a door.

Another handful of sticks.

A buzzer sounded.

Another cigarette.

Another beach.

Snow crunched outside.

The beach froze beneath my feet.

~

When I could stand it no longer, I lurched awake—midnight.

Despite an incalculable time passing in my dreams, having cleared beaches, islands, and whole arpeggios, a mere two hours had passed in the real world.

Sweat soaked my clothes, sheets, and the mattress despite the frozen air.

I laid a towel over my sweat-soaked bed to make it more comfortable, closed my eyes, and slept.

~

I stood on an island beach covered in sticks.

Morning would not come until I finished my impossible task.