Warm Milk

In a time that seems long ago, I was in college. My best friend/study-buddy/soul mate and I were taking a break, maybe even doing laundry. It was, of course, two-thirty in the morning, and for us, "miles to go before I sleep." Not even sure I would even ever sleep again, I asked my bud what she did when she couldn't sleep. She told me about warm milk. She took out a saucepan and brewed up what was left of the quart in the fridge. I still remember the steam rising off the creamy white magical substance she poured into mugs she and her roommates had lifted from the cafeteria. I can still feel the sweet warmth filling my throat, blanketing my heart, filling my stomach.

Twenty-some years later, I am tossing in bed. It is, of course, two-thirty in the morning, but now the miles to go are the happy result of late nights studying Cyto/Hist and Mammalian Phys. Now it's miles of colonoscopies, reams of patient charts, cold, sterile rooms, warm, squirming guts. Tears and hugs, wounds and bandages. I really should get some rest. Time for some warm milk.