Yawning

It starts with a yawn that grows into a stare, which becomes droopy eyelids and a sagging head, and soon, gentle snores. It is warm there in the shaft of sunlight streaming from the window, and the high chair is built perfectly to support his little frame. Watching the battle you can see he is losing. Ah, the seductive and irresistable arms of Morpheus claim yet another busy two-year old, lowering his head onto his plate cushioned by the "'nother half" of his peanut butter and jelly sandwich.


***

In a hospital 3000 miles away, another yawn is accompanied by a wince that, when he thinks you can't hear, gives way to a groan. It is always too damn hot in this room and the adjustable bed is built perfectly to be convenient for the nursing staff and to overlook the discomfort of the bed's occupant. Nonetheless, watching from behind your book, you can see that he, too, is losing a battle. The stroke left him paralyzed on one side and nearly blind from the bleeding in his brain, while his weakened heart feebly tried to keep up with the demands his body was making. His head sinks onto his chest and his breath comes in fitful little wisps of sound. Still, the once-busy 82-year old has won his share of battles, and will not concede this one easily.

***

In a sterile office, another yawn is stifled -- but not quite completely, leaving a tell-tale tear glistening in the corner of her eye. She stands with a stretch before heading for the coffee. The air conditioning system is far too efficient and it is never warm enough in the room. The leather chair is comfortable and built perfectly to keep her slender form in an upright seated position for up to 10 or 12 hours at a time. Worshipping the warm, steaming mug, she returns to her desk. The phone rings and her head tips over to cradle the receiver between ear and shoulder. Watching, you see a slump in her shoulders and a glassy expression that indicate she's in no condition to fight. But Morpheus retreats from this ever-busy woman, choosing to save the battle for another time.

***

It starts with a yawn that leads to a sigh. The numbers on the alarm clock cast an odd, reddish glow. He yawns again and squints at them: 3:04. It's pleasantly cool in the room, so his wakefulness cannot be blamed on faulty climate-control. The bed is built perfectly to be soft yet wondrously firm. It begs him to lie down with its smooth, crisp linens and plump pillows. He obliges. He yawns again. He tosses, turns and flops, but the damn sheep refuse to be inventoried. The files, the accounts, the deadlines on the other hand -- they swirl relentlessly through his mind. Though his body aches with fatigue, and every fiber within him begs to surrender, he can tell that Morpheus won't keep his appointment tonight. Despite appearances, the great god of sleep cannot be summoned by a yawn.