That clock was robbing me of my sleep

The world slept, and I was losing my mind.

“You’re exhausted,” I told myself, rolling over yet again and giving the pillow a fierce punch. “Ignore the noise and go to sleep.”

It was two-something a.m. Which meant it was four a.m. in Israel, which meant almost morning for us, after missing the previous night’s sleep on interminable travel in taxis, buses, trains, and planes. With a toddler.

I looked at the clock, with its generic white plastic rim, hanging on the floral-patterned wallpaper opposite me and told it to Be. Quiet.

It returned my glare with blank impassiveness and ticked on regardless. Loudly. Tick. Tick. Tick.

For a moment I considered leaving my husband and daughter slumbering sweetly and looking for sleeping quarters elsewhere, anywhere.  Even on a bare mattress. Or the couch.

But the click of the door opening would wake my little siren in an instant. My head hurt, the noise of the plane still droning in my ears, along with the sound of the red second-hand marching slowly around the clock face, echoing loudly in the nighttime silence. Tick. Tick.