White Wings: Remembrances of Night
Aleta Wynn Yarrow
I’ve always been a “night person.” There is something magical about the darkness; you have to imagine what you cannot see. Hearing and touch are more vivid. Imagination is selective: lively and exquisite. I like the solitude of the night, the alert focus of working alone in the dark. When I was a teenager, my grandmother came for extended visits. She stayed up long after all others had gone to bed. After midnight I woke and joined her for an hour or two. I remember the intimacy of sharing that dimly lit room in the quiet house. Even now, it’s comforting to be awake in a house full of sleeping people. Even better, to open the window or step onto the porch on a fine spring night, to smell the lilacs or honeysuckle, see the stars, hear the frogs and know that somewhere up there songbirds are navigating their way home by the stars. I’m still waiting for the wood thrush.