Musings

What is it about late-night insomnia that brings out the sentimental - if not maudlin - thoughts?

Tonight's insomnia, at least, is accounted for. I've been reading The Shining and, finally, was close enough to the end that I just could not put it down. For years I avoided reading Stephen King. Don't know why. I guess I just thought he was a hack terror-writer. WRONG. This story was so well crafted, so well written - the style was absolutely perfect for this novel. Of course, finishing a book like this at 1:30 a.m., well....

But I think, subconsciously, I planned it this way. I remember my mother telling me about how she read the book, downstairs in our family room, sitting sideways on "her" chair (dad had "his" chair, mom had "hers." Hers was a thread-bare, orange and white striped armchair that had little, if any give and was nestled in the right corner of the living room) and was so scared she couldn't even climb the stairs up to the bedroom.

In some strange way, tonight I'm a bit closer to her. I have one more thing - superficial as it may be - in common with her.