Velvet

When I was tense and could not sleep, I used to put on the same singer.

There was no complicated ritual. Music played quietly while I looked at the wall, then usually the ceiling, and waited for sleep to arrive. I called her voice velvet because that was the closest word I had for the softness I wanted in the room.

The songs were not attached to one dramatic night. That is what makes the memory more intimate. They belonged to repetition: the same darkness, the same ceiling, the same feeling that the mind had not understood that the day was over.

Eventually the voice became part of a small private system.

Could not sleep.

Play music.

Look up.

Wait.

Sleep does not respond well to direct orders. Telling yourself to sleep often makes the task feel more important and therefore more difficult. The music gave attention somewhere gentler to rest.

Years later, I do not need to remember which song was playing. The sound itself is enough to recover the condition around it: tired eyes, a dark room, and the strange amount of time a person can spend studying a ceiling.

Some music brings back places.

This voice brings back waiting for sleep.