Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep

I am a child.
Barely able to reach the countertops.
The chariot has ventured across the sky,
and a blanket of darkness has rested upon the land.
I fancy silhouettes for beings,
the proverbial prisoner in the cave,
sleep no escape,
for my dreams are surreal horrors.

My mother kneels over my bed,
lowering herself to me.
I lie under the sheets,
my mouth stitched shut,
silent dread
of the nightmares I fear will come.
She asks me if I want to learn a prayer.
I say yes.
And she tells me to repeat.

Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep,
And if I die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take.
And God bless...

and she looks at me and asks,
"Who do you want to bless?"
And explains to me
that I'm wishing well for others,
And guides me through it--
as a good mother does,
teaching me to pray for family and friends,
and others in the world,
who are in need.

And we say amen.
I sit watching the shadows,
move across a bookshelf.
One I could not even yet reach,
that still sits in my room today,
crafted by my father's hands,
gifted to me,
holding now what has become dear to me.