i had a dream in which my father came from work in his rusty Volvo in the evening to fetch me from the cold , so i wouldn't have to walk back to my parents' house, and so i could see him before he ships out to San Jose for a bookselling conference of sorts. the sky was orange, and the three of us sat around the table, and i got marmalade all over my hands, and didn't know what i was saying, slurred my speech, almost in a whisper.

or rather, it wasn't a dream. it's harder than you might think to distinguish.

now i am up at 6 in the room i lived in until i was 3. the sky is still orange, which means snow coming. my sleep is deep and beautiful, packed with rich detail. but i can't control how much of it i get - my body is locking and unlocking its rusty doors, slamming them around, trying to fight for and with my new medication. either deep sleep or a deep restlessness in my body.

there is one lamp. i look orange, and i can't tell if it is the lamp or me.

this room, this house, this date, this hour, are the cocktail of so many rushing-to-school mornings of my youth.