"Writing in Bed: Reflections from Peekskill On Summer Colds, Coffeehouses, and Moving On"

Artwork for Sale in Peekskill Coffee House

I never fancied writing in bed. It always seemed the domain of poets or invalids—sheets rumpled, books splayed open, an air of permissible disarray. Yet here I am, propped awkwardly against thinning pillows, laptop balanced on my knees, the taste of illness bitter at the back of my throat. This summer cold—low on fever, high on tenacity—has claimed my nights and staked its flag deep in my chest. Each dry cough scrapes at my ribs, reverberating through the small hours, stretching out July’s particular brand of insomnia.

This month—July in Peekskill—has grown monstrous to me, a season of sticky heat and malaise. Even now, with the mercury dipping after sunset, the memory of oppressive humidity clings to the walls. I've never liked July; it feels like a month that over-promises and under-delivers. This year, it will be remembered among the worst—an unremarkable stretch of time rendered unforgettable by discomfort.

Still, the laptop offers a kind of salvation. What a marvel—to follow the work wherever the body demands. I can drag it from bed to garden table, perch it on brick steps, or walk it down the street to the best little coffeehouse in town. Peekskill Coffee, tucked into the old flatiron building, is a crossroads of community: endless faces, the symphony of doorbells and espresso, flashes of possibility. It's effortless to lose oneself there, letting the current of humanity drift past, or pausing to marvel at the parade of strangers. Some are astonishingly beautiful, though not always in ways a photograph could trap—their gestures, the warmth behind a smile, the way they read or lift their heads to admire the local artwork.

I’m partial to the crepes, especially the Greek Goddess—spinach and feta, I think, though the ingredients hardly matter. The flavor is memory enough, a texture of comfort that lingers beyond the meal. I savor it absently, letting the taste anchor me as I drift between sentences.

Lately, each paragraph is shadowed by a quiet farewell. This bed—this modest, faithful island—is nearly at its end. Soon, I’ll trade it for a high-rise perch with a balcony overlooking Main Street and Fort Hill, that verdant swell above the Hudson. I look forward to the storms, to rain painting the glass, to snow transforming the city below—scenes witnessed from new heights, the world reshaped by weather and perspective. It’s thrilling, that promise of a view I didn’t realize I needed.

Once, in the early 2000s, I wrote in borrowed beds across San Francisco, never settling long enough to feel tethered. That was a different Charles—a restless wanderer chasing an unnamed hunger. Now the places hold more weight, the rituals more intention. The view from the next perch will be in the city I love, a city no longer a ghetto I claim as mine: a patchwork of memory, observation, and longing stitched into every sentence, wherever I’m writing from.

Maybe that’s what illness and change teach us: no bed is ever wholly ours, and every place—whether flatiron coffeehouse or Hudson-side balcony—becomes a chapter in the strange, unfolding story of ourselves.

Peekskill Coffee House always offers some kind of eye candy to captivate the senses.

The crepes at Peekskill Coffee House are popular and delicious.