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A Memoir on Sleep

            "Sleeping, like dying, delivers you from one world and to the next- to rest in crypts and wake in gardens," to quote the tattoo engraved into my shoulder blade. Throughout my life, I have always been more kin to a boulder than a rock while I slept. When I sleep, it would be easier- and safer- to wake a hibernating bear. During the toughest of adversities, one thing is constant- there is always time to nap. The whole event is humorous, in a way, like the punchline of a joke. "Oh, don't worry about being loud. I have the uncanny ability to sleep wherever and whenever I want," I often say. That is true. I have slept through numerous traumas as if it were any regular Sunday nap; surgery, the passing of my cat, the passing of my grandfather, and even the burning of my house. Sleeping has been a nullifier, to release me from one place of hardship and take me to where I may be comfortable. .
             During the winter of 2008, a year before the start of middle school, my house caught fire in the midst of Superbowl Sunday. Although this day held no particular significance to my personal family, it was local tradition to become so inebriated that the sport could almost be considered interesting. That was how it seemed to me at the time, at least. We personally did not partake in this event. With this in mind, I slept in as if it was any other weekend: far similar to a boulder than a rock. That is to say, I slept with ease without any alarms, bells, nor plans. Of course, nobody could plan for what happened. As per usual, I slept heavily well into the noon. By 11 that morning, my locked bedroom door was wrenched from its frame with a heavy foot from my father. He hollered, no, shrieked, at me. As if made from rubber, his words bounced off my deaf ears and were sucked away from the increasing din of the situation. Though I could hardly see him through billowing black smoke, his presence was known.

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