That hour between midnight and one AM always seems like a bridge to me. Today flinched to yesterday…technically. But your still-coursing heart, still -dancing limbs, still-open eyes, and mind that can reach back to breakfast belie a new day’s beginning.
In the smaller cities it is a silent hour. The practical are asleep. Those who know better are moving toward that state, but in no hurry. The naive, the willful, and the devil-may-care are damning the torpedoes.
I know better. But tonight, arrogant from a midday nap, sated on the molho of a fine day, and a sweet, rich night, I am willful: caught somewhere between adamant and supplicant that Monday will falter. Maybe twist an ankle and have to postpone its appearance?
I would bring you soup, Monday, if you were laid up for a while, and placate your fears. Sunday is a workhorse! She can carry your load. Now, just rest. Put your feet up. You deserve it. Don’t fret now. We can bear a week without you.