My light thy shine

She whispers my name, and it is mom. I hear it from the other room, as I am also she.

The door opens with my hand.

She is upright, groggy, eyes strained from dark viewing.

“Do we live alone mama?”

“Yes” I almost called her silly, but the way she held her shoulders rolled forward, protecting her knees tucked into her chest, told me not to.

“Then who is the man that watches me sleep when you close the door?”

My throat starts sweating, and I try to swallow, but it is full of stones. I keep my gaze from shifting around the room as not to show fear, mostly for her, but I know he is there. I take a step toward her and with a swoop grab blankets, pillows and babe, for a short swift ride, landing on my make-less bed.

Her head is on my chest, and blankets pile like a fallen fort, and I will give her my safe dream tonight so I begin to translate.

There is a moon, and you can step on it like a soft trampoline, and gravity is sparse, your jumps make you go so high into the sky, but you are not afraid of heights, or anything. And you play for a while, touching stars like lightening bugs that glow your favorite color. And the air is crisp enough that your cheeks turn red, but soft enough that it’s a pleasure to just breathe, and when you sigh, it’s with relief.

Soon you will find yourself in a kitchen. It will smell of spices and smoke, you like it very much. And the woman holding the tray of cookies with her flowered apron, is my mom, your grandma. You can chose any cookie, but I like the blue ones best. There is sometimes hot cocoa, and if you ask for marshmallows they slow fall from the ceiling in the shape of snowflakes, onto counters, your tounge, the floor, and nobody gets upset about the mess. There is sunshine peeking from window onto floor, and you can make shadow puppets that come to life, like miniature bunnies that will hop all around your feet. And you will hear the woman with the apron laugh and pick you up into her arms sitting at the kitchen table. She will rock you and sing softly, and you can stay there the rest of the night, safe.

I can hear my daughters breathing become full and she is past the realm of awareness, her lips no longer quiver but curve, and she murmurs pink. I can see why she would, those cookies are beautiful.

My eyes close, and I start to fall backwards, down down down, but so slowly that I cannot correct the fall as it almost doesn’t exist. It is dark when I stop, if I ever do, and he is there. We are familiar. He is the shadow behind the door without a face. He is dark and looming with no eyes but sees me from all directions at once. He is the sound next to my bed, aloof with drooping yet unyielding shapes, that cascade in such a way his form never changes, even when he paces with aggravation. And I am rigid and terrified, and trying not to show my internal dread sitting on a bed too small for me to lay down. And I will stay here until I wake. Waiting for him to calm down. He never will. He is lost as well. I have angered him by removing him from the fearful. But knowing all along, it was my light that made his silhouette so dark, and his dusky presence, that made my skin like dampened flour.

I close my eyes, and wait for morning. I hope tomorrow, she tries the blue cookie.