Just one of those sleepless moments

The far-off truck tire noise, it’s eighteen tires screaming in unison as it rushes away in the one o’clock desert air.

The noise awoke me. It’s November 5, 2017, and I’ve left the doors open. It’s 85 degrees in this Surprise, Arizona house. It’s not supposed to be this hot in November. It is July Arizona heat at one in the morning. In this house, that is. Outside the temperature reads sixty-five degrees.

Outside is a full moon. 


 I’m still not awake, but awake enough to put on slippers, naked enough in the dark house heat to fumble for the digital camera, stumble to the open front door, grab the porch rail as I stumble down the steps.

Too unstable to stand upright and focus the camera, I place my cold butt on the rear of the cool car door and point the camera skyward.

Its flash outlines the front side of the house as I snap a white orb in the inky sky at one in the morning.

What the hell am I doing, anyway? I’m naked as a jaybird in front of the house. (well, no one is around anyway).

Am I that desperate to write something every day… that I’m taking pictures of the moon? (probably).

At least I’m more awake now. I climb the porch stairs, go back inside the house. I carefully place the camera on the kitchen counter and turn by the fridge to gulp some organic grape juice. God, that tastes good.

No reason to stay up. I’m going back to bed. Still not a sound outside. Even the truck is way gone west on Bell Road. Probably going to catch Grand Avenue to 303, hit Interstate ten another twenty miles south and be in California in time for a late breakfast.

About the time the trucker could be eating a California breakfast, we will be on our vacant lot, greeting the Sunday morning sun. I have no idea what today’s going to bring.

I met an old veteran in Walmart parking lot as I was coming back to my car Saturday evening. He wanted my grocery cart. He was extremely thin.

Nothing but a tall drink of water that was sticks and bones. In this case, his sticks were two crutches he needed to propel himself. He had on traces of an army uniform.

He offered he had been hit by a heavy dose of Agent Orange. He weighed less than one hundred thirty pounds, and a still wind would knock him over. I guess he was somewhere in his fifties but looked eighty.

I didn’t know what to say. I’m a veteran and, next to him, I am in perfect shape at seventy-eight. (Veteran’s Day is less than a week away).

I finished the grape juice, closed the fridge and found my way back to bed. Flung the slippers somewhere in the dark and semi-flopped across the bed. Too tired to care exactly where I landed. It’s that kind of a feeling this very early Sunday morning.

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