Dear Captain Harvey

Go to sleep, Harvey. Drift away. Settle your kicking legs and your searching arms. Let your heavy eyelids close. Stop grabbing your ears. (I promise that they will be there when you wake-up.) Relax your shoulders and let the tension of the ache of your cutting teeth fade. I know how hard it is to let go of this world, even for an hour. There is so much to explore – to inventory – to do. I feel the same way sometimes. There are toys waiting, food to eat, new sounds to hear, fresh smells to smell. And there is also the familiar, which we fear forgetting. The sweet tones of mother’s voice. Bouncing in your play chair. Smiling at each other. And yet, there is a time, when we must close our eyes and let our imagination flourish and our memory take stock of the bright, beautiful moments that fill our lives. So go to sleep, Harvey, and I promise that what dreams you don’t remember I will tell you about someday, as I hope to dream as you do.

Written from 8:30 am to 9:11 am on Saturday, October 26, 2013 in our office/Harvey’s toy room at the Double Dogleg in Traverse City, Michigan. He fell asleep on my shoulder just before writing this. Lindsey was sleeping in, and Yogi was snoring on the couch. I was up, putzing around, drinking coffee, listening to the rain fall on the metal dog bowls outside as early dawn lightened to day. I am appreciative of the soft sounds of this morning and of being surrounded by my sleeping family.