There are 57 glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling; 82 books on my bookshelf; 17 thumbtacks that are holding nothing on my bulletin board; four pages of unfinished math homework waiting on my desk; 34 gel pens in my rainbow drawing pack; five colored pencils and three pens in the Susie the ballerina cup. There are zero sheep. Zero. I am wide awake; my window is full of dark, dark sky and bright, bright stars; and counting is not helping.
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| Star Window by Aris |
Jagged remnants of nightmare disturb my night. The same one – over and over – since I was really little. Daddy would curl me in his arms when I woke up scared and shaking. And then, the soft words of his made-up story would tumble over one another – melting into a soft cool comforting lake. I don’t remember his stories told in the dark of the night. I wonder if he told the same one over and over or if he just let his words tumble down the path, finding their own way. I do remember the sound – soft and deep, rising and falling with the beginning and ending of sentences – meandering music melting my fears away.
Crickets chirp.
Pine needles swish with the chipmunks midnight play.
A coyote howls at the moon.
The aspen quake with the breeze.
Bright pink curtains brush the sill.
Toby’s paws wiggle chasing a dream rabbit.
TM purrs, curled on my blanket.
Daddy’s story lingers.
Stars shimmer and whisper.
A little girl breathes deeply.
And Daddy sighs softly.
The calm after my nightmare storm comforted me when I was really little. It’s funny, in that warm fuzzy way, that the memory of each sound touching the next comforts me now that I’m not so little. The words didn’t matter. I did. I do.
Tomorrow morning isn’t that far away. Comfort comes counting what counts.
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