Unresponsive baby.

 

Sometimes, when I wake up in the morning, I drift in and out of lucidity before I really “come to.” I slowly, bitterly, relinquish the peacefulness of sleep to the harsh realities of wakefulness, which, on a Wednesday morning, are especially repellent.

 

Often during this slowly, irregular path out of sleep, I experience random thoughts, words, images, expressions; some of them remain ingrained in my memory, others wash away with all the other discarded mental detritus that is my mind. It’s as if this borderline conscious zone between sleep and awake is inhabited by a surreal conglomeration of life’s props that don’t restrict themselves to normal contexts and expectations of our four-dimensional reality.

 

This morning, a couple of words flashed across my mind as I made my way out of sleep. Random, but so tragic.  The kind of words I could imagine a paramedic crew radioing in to dispatch during an ill-fated rescue call in the exurbs.

 

Unresponsive baby.

 

Unresponsive baby.

 

Are there any words in the human language which carry such a promise of unspoken tragedy?

 

So many implications from so little…