Today has started early. I got out of bed after awakening at 5:30, hot in the closed room with the heavy duvet. Chris had moved into the tiny twin bed in the other bedroom to escape my snoring. I went in and asked if he was alright there, and he said, "I'm OK," in a soft, tired voice. I asked him to let me sleep in the little bed,so he moved back to the other bedroom, where he's still asleep. We have done this over the years, jockey for beds when we're trying to figure out how to get through the night. He won't wake me up and ask me to move, goes himself to somewhere I like better or where I knew he's uncomfortable, so I often wake him again later. Who knew, years ago, when we fell asleep at the moment we hit the bed and had to drag ourselves out in the morning, that older age would bring with it these sleep problems?
I have an engrossing book, which helps. It's Olive Kitteredge, which Emily has read and liked, and I picked it up again in the early hours. I hear the stroke of the 6 a.m. bells then the more exuberent 7 o'clock bells calling everyone to get up and greet the day. There are two sets of bells here. The nearest one rings first, then a few minutes later the other rings. Whether this is planned so that each bell has its say or whether its a matter of disagreement over the actual time, I don't know.
As soon as it began turning light, the doves on the tiled roof across the street began their throaty cooing, purring like housecats. When I opened the outside shutters to air out the room in the middle of the night, several who had been roosting on them flew off in a flurry. We hear their soothing sounds coming down the chimney; Chris has observed that all the spikes put up to keep them from roosting has just provided support for them.
