A Dark Room, an iPad and a Cherished Memory

So I am sitting in a dark room with my iPad. It's mostly quiet, despite the the fact that this is a part of a busy emergency room in New York. For protection against infection, our room is separated from the main nursing area. There is, of course, the occasional page or a ringing bell alerting the nurses that someone needs attention.

Overnight it was not quiet here. It was so busy that stretchers were backed up in the halls and there was a shortage of beds on some units upstairs that has, in fact, kept my friend here since early last evening.

The doctors and nurses have kindly found a bed so she doesn't have to remain on a stretcher. As I write, I am comforted by her little puppy snores, the music of a peaceful rest and a restorative sleep.

My iPad is a blessing, veritably a light in this dimness, a completely quiet keyboard that won't disturb much-needed rest. For one whose therapy is writing, it is the ideal palette for thoughts, however mundane.

Somehow, this experience reminds me of those childhood nights when I read with a flashlight under the covers. We kids shared a room and our parents were strict about "lights out" for bedtime. My secret passion for those first books was illumined by a purloined flashlight that I kept hidden under my pillow until I heard the others were asleep. Then I pulled out book and flashlight and tented the covers over me.

The fact that this was "forbidden" behavior made it all the more lusciously seductive. I did (and do) love to read, but never more than when it was under those covers. It's a wonder that I didn't ruin my eyesight, I suppose. I wouldn't trade the memory for any amount of money and relish it anew this moment in the dimness of this room.