I didn't check the clock, but it must have been somewhere between midnight and 3 am when my aging and brittle bladder prompted me awake and set me on a path to the bathroom.

Since the distance is the same either way, I opted for the route that goes from my side of the bed, out the doors to the balcony, down a bit, then makes a left at the glass door to the bathroom ... the one that lets me look out over the sea whenever I get those few moments to luxuriate in the bath (When was the last time that happened?) ... rather than the path that could disturb Mark.

Since this has become a nightly routine, no matter what steps I take to prevent the interruption in my sleep, I don't usually bother to completely wake up for the process. Last night, however, half way down the balcony as I set to stumble back to bed, my eyes popped wide open and every fiber of my being, every inch of bare skin, every optic nerve, and every poetic leaning my body owns became instantly, vibrantly and gratefully aware.

The stars were as bright as they can be when the moon is doing everything in its lunatic power to outshine them, and the diamond-studded, black-blue velvet sky reflected itself perfectly from the mirror-smooth surface of the Indian Ocean.

The mountain across the bay was so obviously enjoying her moon bath that she'd tossed a feather boa of cloud around her neck. The gleam was contagious, and all the smaller hills were joining in.

The fruit bats were happy about a jack fruit ripening at the bottom of my garden, and their chatter almost covered the soft, rhythmic whisper of the sea kissing the shore a few hundred meters from where I stood.

I breathed it all in and out a few times, then went back to bed.

I had beautiful dreams.