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Chapter 1: a love story This love story has no beginning and no end. I don’t remember the first time I saw him. Those first few moments of encounter are all jumbled together now. It could have been that gig in the church. Or maybe that was just the first time I really noticed him- the tall, intimidating guitarist with the beautiful hair. I can’t remember officially the first time that I laid eyes on him, but I remember how it felt when I first heard his voice, when he mumbled his quiet hello; how beautiful his eyes were, and how much more those eyes had to say than his lips did. That’s where I’ll start my love story; with the world we’d know written behind his eyes. The first time we really talked it was his birthday and we were at a grungy bar. He made some comment about the dirty couches and I thought it was dumb. But later, when I saw him sitting in a booth on his own I felt compelled to sit down beside him, and we started to talk. It was surprising how easy it was to talk ...

I have never been a "good sleeper." My brain has always busied itself at night, sorting through the day, reminding myself of all of the things I should do, need to do, should have done. It used to be that falling asleep was the most difficult thing to do. I would lie in bed for hours, waiting for sleep to come find me. Since my second daughter was born I've become better at that part, out of survival, I think. If you could be woken up at any given part of the night, you must learn to fall asleep when you can. And yet lately, I find myself awake on the other side of the night-- in the early hours before dawn, and while the house is quiet my heart is racing, as though there is some urgency I have just remembered. And yet there's nothing...but there must be something . So, I'm writing, to try to make sense of the noise in my brain in those quiet hours before the dawn.