Whenever you are stressed or can’t sleep, they say to concentrate on your breath.
Laying under the covers, I closed my eyes and inhaled, exhaled, inhaled, exhaled. My mind wondered. “Concentrate,” I scolded myself.
In my mind’s eye, I saw my breath as I exhaled. It drifted to the mantle of my fireplace and peered down at me. I pretended to sleep.
It flitted around the mantle examining my wooden Pinocchio puppet, peered at pictures inside their frames and at my grandparent’s non-functional antique clock.
From there it floated to my bookshelves and I stirred when it became agitated. No doubt, it saw one of Stephen King’s books. That’s when it made its escape.
It seeped under my bedroom door and took a quick left to the piano but couldn’t muster up enough strength to press a key.
In the family room, it found my antique rocking chair where it settled into a back and forth, back and forth rhythm.
A back and forth, back and forth rhythm.
I’m not sure what other adventures it had. Nor do I know when it returned to me during the night.
I was asleep.