thread

When I lie in bed at night, through the sliver of space between the curtain and the window, I can see the glow from the neighbor’s window. It’s higher than our window, a little bit, and, lately, every night, I stare at that ribbon of golden light before I drift off, sleepy eyes blurring to see an almost white aura pulsing around the gold, watching the in-and-out sway of black branches of a nearby tree. And I’m mesmerized. The radiant ribbon. The rippling aura. The weaving branches. If someone asked, I could answer that it’s just the neighbor’s bathroom, but when I’m lying in bed, MB asleep beside me, that’s not what it is. No. It’s a queer tugging thread connecting me to something long long ago. A little kid’s bedroom. A little kid’s bed. A twin bed for me, a twin bed for my sister, and a dark room with blue shag carpet. Long after my bedtime, I’d lie there, watching the golden sliver under the door, listening to the muffled tv, the muted laughter, the quiet conversation, all the things that meant mom and dad were still awake, still there. I was safe. I was not alone. My sister would snore softly a few feet away and I would lie there, praying and praying, the same thing over and over. Praying that the bad thing that happened would never happen to us again. Praying that God would protect us from now on. Praying, praying, praying. Finally, though, I would drift off, with the golden sliver and the soft sounds and a quiet quiet God. Years later, it’s a grown-up bedroom. A grown-up bed. A golden ribbon. A snoring husband. But still, still, I lie there in the dark and pray to a quiet quiet God, gazing at the shifting glow until the window goes dark for the night.