BREAKING: NEW YORK WOMAN

i.

At the worst hotel on the planet, or at least

in Augusta Maine, I’m wide awake at 2 AM.

I’ve tried all the usual tricks—body scan, box

breathing, the NYT Spelling Bee, Wordle, doom-

scrolling, Indeed, LinkedIn, loving-kindness meditation,

calling my representatives, shopping for the perfect

winter coat, Hail Marys, dry Lucky Charms,

the 5-4-3-2-1-grounding technique for panic

attacks and counting sheep—with no success.

I’m not surprised by the ineffectiveness of counting

sheep. Sheep are too foreign to me now, so far

removed from my daily life, too interesting to fall

asleep to. I can’t remember the last time I even saw

a sheep, or wore wool for that matter. Although, now

that I think of it, the tight-knit pattered mittens

my mother brought back from Estonia 30 years ago

are still in the pockets of my imperfect winter coat,

which, it turns out, you need in Maine, even in March,

because the wind-chill is minus 17 degrees.

ii.

While it’s happening—while I spiral deeper and deeper

into night’s black hole—it seems like a very big deal.

A momentous occurrence. A great crisis of some kind.

Something quite newsworthy. A significant event

that might be briefly summarized and scrolling

across the bottom of the screen underneath

the tightly dressed and talking made-up faces:

BREAKING: NEW YORK WOMAN CAN’T SLEEP.

I won’t mention the oily stains on the bedspread, the red

mildewed curtains, the mold in the heating unit,

or the conditions and the thickness and the colors

of the splatters on the bathroom walls because I don’t

want you to lose your appetite like I did. 3 chicken tacos

with hard corn shells, lettuce, cheese, and sour cream

down the drain. I will tell you about the piercing chirp

of the smoke alarm from the yellowed ceiling in the hallway

just outside our room (#212) and how the very kind,

but burned-out manager made a great display of making

up—and I’m not making this up—new keys before walking

us down to our new improved location (#211) just one room

over and across the hall—and how my husband dutifully

entered and closed the door behind him to report to us

that yes indeed he could still hear the chirping

and that we would need to find another solution.

iii.

On the way up the coast, we had stopped, spur-of-the-moment,

at Ogunquit. The sea dark and roiling after a storm. The sand

holding water, reflecting thick clouds and blue sky. A cold haze

like a veil across the landscape so it felt like we were walking

amongst the clouds.

We are in Maine for my cousin’s funeral. Only a few years

older than me. A gentle walking lighthouse of a man.

At 3 am my husband throws off the covers to alleviate

another hot flash—a side effect from his cancer treatment—

then wakes to pee again.

Under the news tab, I read about 20 geese

found dead

behind the dunes at Ogunquit

two days ago

the same beach where we had just walked

among the clouds—

suspected casualties of avian flu.

Overnight the White House

designates English as the Official

Language of the United States of America.

My sister texts me that the nursing home called. My mother

needs another round of antibiotics.

Our elder failing dog whimpers softly from her travel

bed. My husband carries her down the hotel steps

and out into thick falling snow.

It’s all a blur.

iv.

Morning comes, as it always does.

And now it seems

I’m just an ordinary

fool—squinting in the too

bright light—scraping cold

and artificial scrambled eggs

from a Styrofoam plate with a plastic fork,

contemplating the prerequisites of orange juice.