Lately I’m restless in bed. I don’t toss or turn but also I don’t sleep.

My father once told me it doesn’t matter whether we actually lose consciousness. It’s only important that we rest our bodies and our minds. He counseled me to lie quietly in my bed, to relax. I knew even at eleven when he first told me this that it wasn’t the truth. I sensed then that he was tricking me into some form of sleep-promoting meditation. But it worked.

My father is Japanese and a Buddhist. That advice is typical of him. He has also taught me independence of spirit, control where I’m capable, patience with my mother. Mom is Jewish/Italian; we like to say she leads “a rich emotional life.” Watching my parents has always been more entertaining than TV.

Lately I’m restless because I have so much on my mind. The characters on the Commission. The catastrophe in the elevator. Small wonder I’m not sleeping.

“My name is Isabella Aaroner Muramoto. My face is pretty and my spirit is persistent.” That’s what I wrote on my eighth grade statement when I ran for student body secretary. It made little sense but I won the election. I was a good listener, and they let me take the notes for my class. That’s one of the reasons I remember youth so well; I wrote it down. I understand kids because I recollect. I think I’ll be a good parent. I hope so. Oh God I-beneath-the-level-of novice so humbly invoke the necessary skills…

I continued to be pretty. Persistent. Organized. Determined. Humble. Polite. Hopeful. I was lucky in the love of my parents. I was seen as a good representative. I was successful in elections. High school class president. College yearbook editor. Now the Commission. Next year, maybe City Council.

If the Commission met more often, each occasion wouldn’t be so momentous. But the schedule is monthly. I think that’s why I make such a big deal about it. Always preparing for a week ahead of time, envisioning the other commissioners to get a feel for how they’ll move the meeting. Reviewing the agenda, imagining. And now: afterwards… debriefing myself this way. Replaying the motions and emotions. Understanding.

I pan around in memory…my camera obscura… this dark box…a talking head. Easily I remember a meeting that ended only two hours ago. I’m positioned at one corner of a “U” of rectangular tables: Chairwoman Isabella. To my right are deaf Debra, Lisa, and Weird Walter: to my left the two Carols, blind Barbara, and the ever-formal Commissioner William Jones. Debra and Lisa and Walter, brownhaired and well-proportioned…Carol and Barbara and Carol, lighthaired and grotesque…Commissioner William Jones, tall, black, deep-voiced and proud, with a Caucasian-colored prosthetic right foot. The sight of that Crayola-flesh-toned device, peeking like a lip of Silly Putty between the Commissioner’s pantleg and his New Balance shoe, makes me feel sad in a slow way.

Commissioner William Jones always identifies himself before he speaks to the group. He thanks us for the time when he’s done. I can’t say I really like the man, but he’s a character. The Commission wouldn’t be the same without him.

But maybe the Commission can do without Barbara and the Carols. Tonight I could have done without them.