I wasn’t scared of a single thing when I was a little girl, except for EVERYTHING that happened each night after the moon made her unwelcome presence. It didn’t matter how many times I was told the moon had a warm, friendly face. Or that she provided bonus lighting to newborn stars. Or that the sun chose her special to keep the night sky safe.
Not even five bedtime readings of Goodnight Moon could dislodge the fear I felt.
I associated the moon with darkness, and that meant the boogey man taking up residence under the bed. Oftentimes in my closet. Always in my nightmares.
I called for her in the night. She’d tiptoe in without a word, lift the blanket, and scoot right under beside me. She’d scoop me into the safest cuddle bear hug. She’d hold my hand and sing our favorite Pooh song. How did she know EXACTLY what it took to make the scary go away?
I never knew how long she stayed because I fell asleep secure and content, comforted by her strong, loving presence.
She called for me in the night. Confused. Scared. Not sure where she was. I lifted the warm blanket to lie down beside her. Snuggle her in a safe cocoon. She’d been crying. And didn’t know why. I blotted her tears with my pajama sleeve. And sang her our favorite lullaby from childhood. I heard her faint hum join along. She held tightly to my fingers. I held tightly to her hand. As she’d done for me a million times over thousands and thousands of days. She slept. I dare not move.
She called for me in the night. I comforted her. The way I remember she’d comforted me.
I prayed to be my mom’s safe space. The way she’d always been mine.