I remember only one such sleep, following my firstborn’s delivery by C-section. I was under the influence of morphine and a pure, thorough, body exhaustion. The first course was upward, a mix of things half-heard, only partially understood, and so wrapped in imaginative ribbon. The rattle of a blood cart became a tree with spoons in place of leaves. A nurse became a lifeguard with layers of zinc on her nose. Her announcement over the intercom, the answer to all those dream exams. I say upward, because so much sleep is depicted as falling. Mine was not so. The room with all its detail receded, and I rose with a slight toiling up up up into the sun, to the second course, a kind of plateau. This was new land, very flat, very white, a salt field or desert made of chalk. Patches of dream flew against the sun—a miniskirt, some costume jewelry—but they didn’t engross me. When I was hungry, I ate coconut. When thirsty, I drank the milk. This went on for hours, this perfect sleep. I reached the end by backstroke, the mind carving shoulder blades and wings in the sand.
