It started with the legs. An ill-timed kick here, a knee toward the groin there. Pretty wicked for someone who is unconscious. Then your fingers. Usually the pointer, as if trying to show you. The way it jerks suddenly but with purpose. See? see? X marks the spot. Right there in front of you all along. Now the neck. To the side and back, sometimes an arrow, the triangle side ceiling up. You’re used to the legs, but the rest? Who knows. You think Parkinson’s and then you remember.

There are nights you reach your hands above the trees. Stand outside, swallowed by stars, wading in murk. And you think maybe tonight, can someone please grab the other end. Pull on the fingers until you know they’re there. Other nights, the stretched arms are lightning rods, beckoning rain. Or bidding it go away. Certain evenings, the arms are just arms. Those times you cross the palms to your shoulders, a makeshift hug, silly but necessary.

There is expanse on those midnights. A vast distance, just hinted at, possibly someday crossed, never not thought of.

And now you are trying to get there in your sleep.

There are worse things I suppose.