Yesterday was a long day, filled with potty-training a two-year old, 4th grade homework, fixing meals, cleaning house and refereeing a den of 8-year old cub scouts. By the time ten o'clock rolled around, I was lying in bed eagerly waiting for sleep to claim me. That's when it happened...again. I recognized that proverbial knock on the door of my imagination and rolled over determined to ignore it. Several minutes later, I finally cracked the door to tell whoever it was to skedaddle.
"Hello," said a young man who peered at me through the thin line of the doorway . "I apologize for the hour but if you don't mind, I need to tell you a few things." I shook my head and tried to shut the door in his face, but he stiff-armed it open. "Just a moment of your time, ma'am. Then I'll be outta you're hair."
But I knew if I let him in, it wouldn't be just a minute and I was exhausted. "No, please. Not tonight. I'm tired. Can't it wait?"
"I don't expect so," he answered calmly, and then, through the crack of the doorway, he began to tell me about himself––where he came from, his family, his farm, but mostly he told me about a girl.
After twenty minutes, I gave up, crawled out of bed and invited him to take a seat while I booted up my laptop.
These late night visits aren't doing much for the ole' beauty sleep.





