Late nights are my time. Everyone is asleep and I can sit alone, listening to the seconds hand on the clock work its metronome-tick.
Even on the coldest nights, the late hours are mine. That is when I write, and plan, and think.
I water my plants in the night. Somehow they seem to appreciate it more. I make my objects in the wee hours of the morning; changing things around, breaking them down, and building them up.
Occasionally, one of the babes will wake.
And together, we will recline under dimmed lights as I rock the tiny body back to sleep and think random thoughts about needle work on leather. Or sewing hair into copper rounds. Occasionally, I debate whether epoxy glue was truly a better fixative than rubber cement.
I make detailed lists of things until the battery on my phone dies, and I wonder if there is a hardware store nearby as handy Nagib Elias on Charlotte St. in Port-of-Spain, or as well-stocked as those monster Home Depot warehouses in the American South.
In the late hours, I can drink an entire pot of tea by myself. (Sometimes, I put more than a dash of Anostura bitters in the brew.)
And I read a selection from a neverending pile of books.
Until the book begins to read me.
Added hand-embroidery to my practice.
It's repetitive, cramp-inducing, & tedious.
But the finish is satisfying.
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