a field of stars

When he decides he'll sleep N. stops settling and exhales sharply and sleeps through to a field of stars in oscillating patterns, in sharpshift constellations of familiar and beloved objects, nightglowoutlines of dump trucks, oversized plastic footballs, omnipotent vacuum cleaners and beach buckets flipped to form brigadier's helmets, ornate, not streamlined but regal, horses and woof woofs and a fuzzy cat and sippy cups of deliciously non-watered down apple juice.

When the firmament shifts or blinks to form each new pattern a collage of melodies in modulating sister keys pans stereowide through the room, where the boat rows and the bongo bongs, where the spider bitsies and Ms. Mary Mack dresses like a Beat Poet in a turtleneck, where old Dan Tucker gets narrowly out the way of the wheels on the bus. Said bus is driven by Raffi and it isn't that he's driving recklessly or drunk or high on cocaine or apple juice or distracted by the tender entreaties of his four best groupie moms; the fault is that of Mr. Tucker and I'd appreciate you refraining from questions about Raffi's character; he is at the very least a genius of arrangement and those are his assistants.

Before N. decides to sleep there are random games to be folded into the eachnight ritual (hide under pillows), rote references to Geneva conventions, surprisingly proactive calls for the changing of diapers, appeals to sleep in other rooms, to go downstairs for water, to just be left alone to sleep, please.

And when you honor that particular request and close the door you only have to count to ten before he's out of bed, over to the light, and when you open the door again his eyes are bright with humor, and of course the parenting manual says you aren't supposed to look him in the eye or laugh yourself at that point but christ, it's funny.