Morning-Night

I felt it before I actually heard it. 

 

I lifted my head from the pillow at the same time as sweet Annie.  Our faithful pup was off the bed before my feet hit the floor. 

 

It was “Morning-Night” – titled such by my 5-year-old daughter to describe that sliver of time when you first wake up and can’t decide if it’s Morning or Night. 

 

Annie was at the door before I was, trying to be patient while waiting for me to use my opposable thumbs to turn the knob.  The sobs grew louder as the “CREAK” of the door heralded our arrival.  I heard a pleading then — “Mommy?”  I climbed quickly to the top bunk to find my 8 ½ (going on 16)-year-old looking very small under her covers, her hair soaking wet.  My initial reaction was to feel her forehead, and finding no fever there, I lifted myself into her bed and pulled her close.  Through tears, she described the horrible nightmare she had just escaped as she fought to reconcile whether it had actually happened or was just a very bad dream.  She told me of the man who tried to take her away from me – of how she was calling out for me, but I couldn’t hear her, couldn’t save her. 

 

I listened carefully to her words before I spoke, and then I deftly navigated the waters of my own self-doubt.  As I told her that her Daddy and I would do everything in our power to always keep her and her sister safe, I myself was haunted by the faces of the daughters of countless others flashed across countless screens during countless evening news programs.  The faces of young girls and women stolen from this world and their families by monsters – not the kind hiding in closets or under beds, but even more frighteningly, hiding in plain sight.   All the while, I was amazed by the simple power of my embrace and gentle words to calm her fears. 

 

In time, sobs turned to smiles and giggles under the covers.  And as our attentions turned to shadow puppets on the walls of her pink room, I was struck with the realization that we often exist in a state of “Morning-Night”.  That sliver, that fine line, between truth and fiction.  It’s made up of the same kind of magic that leaves us so desperately wanting to believe in the existence of Santa Claus and “happily ever after”.  It’s what pulls us through each day, rather than leaving us cowering in our beds, crippled by fear.  There is comfort to be found in the moments between the fantasy – what we want most to believe – and cold harsh reality.

 

by Kasie Bolling

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Published in: on December 21, 2008 at 4:25 pm  Comments (2)  

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2 CommentsLeave a comment

  1. WOW. This is why I love you. Beautiful imagery and unmatched observation. OH, and brutal honesty. You rock the words my dear!

    • Thank you!!! The feeling is mutual, darlin’!


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