This Moment: 8:51 P.M. December 15, 2011

There is no other choice but to sit with this mood, this unwelcome guest, and together watch carlights stream through the darkness. My loyal, old dog sits vigil with me. She is resting on the tasseled entry rug, front paws crossed one over the other, her nose pressed against the etched glass of the front door. I hear my husband toss fitfully in the bedroom. He talks in his sleep. Most of his sleep talk is work directives. Rarely, is the talk personal. Sometimes I enter his conversations and he will answer my inquiries until he falls back to dreaming. This is how we speak to each other. A punk rock version of "Over the Rainbow" assaults the evening's quiet. I close the door. On his flight home today, my husband sat next to a returning soldier. I asked him if they spoke. What was said. I wanted to know what the soldier thought of day's news. He said they didn't talk, that he fell asleep, but added that when they landed and he stood to retrieve his bag, the soldier joked that my husband was out the entire flight, and he joked back that this is what happens when you become an old man. I wonder what my husband said to the soldier while he was asleep.