Sleep Is a Country

By Anne Le Dressay

Sleep is a country whose border guards are fickle.

Some people slip in and out without effort, unquestioned. For them, sleep is routine and therefore blank. For others, it is an excursion from which they bring back exotic souvenirs and memories of archetypal visitations.

I am not of those. I am on some black list to which the guards are inconsistently sensitive. Sometimes only the bribery of drugs slips me past them. Sometimes they pretend they will let me in, then call me back for yet another interrogation. Every now and then, they seem to believe my pretense of citizenship and they barely notice me, so that I almost convince myself.

Always I come at an angle, nervous and with too much baggage. I walk furtive, never looking directly at gates or guards. Always, I must drop piece by piece the baggage till I am light enough to float.

Sometimes in that country I am surprised by grace: the country is a jewel whose dust I am permitted to gather and sift, enchanted. Sometimes in that country I am accompanied by angels.