There was a time when, if I was up at 3:30 AM, I was among friends. I was at a sleepover, high on Mountain Dew. I was at my senior party. I was heading home after a night at the Red Carpet to grab a slice of leftover pizza from the fridge. I was standing outside a sub shop after working late, finally finished with bar rush, discussing the rest of the night with my fellow sandwich makers.
At these times, 3:30 AM was merely a suggestion.
When I moved back to Sioux Falls, 3:30 AM became a time of peace. I worked late every night at a call center, and would spend an hour each night reading. It was wind-down time.
A few years later, when I had moved into a normal nine-to-five job, 3:30 AM shifted into a time of amazement. Those were the times I was awake in Sierra’s room – and later, in Isaac’s room – rocking them back to sleep, struck by the weight of their bodies, fighting not to nod off myself.
And then, 3:30 AM went away.
Until recently. Now, 3:30 AM is just the time I wake up with this asshole dog and take him outside.
I miss the old 3:30 AM.