Sometimes I think this place is haunted.
The wind was howling something fierce last night. My walls were creaking at the seams. Things were banging around on my roof. The din finally stirred me from restless sleep at 5:56 this morning.
In the confusion of that half-light, I thought maybe someone was trying to break in. I felt uneasy. Watched. Haunted.
I laid motionless in bed, looking for apparitions out of the corner of my eye.
I waited patiently for sunrise, rolling my worries around my head. Small worries: work, friends, life, death. Sunrise was slow to come.
There isn’t much between New Jersey and me. 80th Street is, gratefully, devoid of tall buildings. So the wind blows straight from the Delaware Water Gap, across the Hudson, and into my bedroom.
Whether or not that wind gathers rogue spirits and lost souls in its travels across the meadowlands, or whether they are here with me now — and always — I don’t know.
But I sure could use some sleep. I can see it in my eyes.