A Child’s Dream of Death

Gold Can Stay

“Mom, I had a bad dream. I had a dream that you died.”

And with that I bolted upright at 4 AM on Friday morning, not nearly enough hours of sleep under my belt.

My nine-year-old son was standing in the doorway, looking vulnerable, scared, and much smaller than he does in daylight hours.

He had never had a dream like this before—at least none that he could remember or thought to tell me about.

He asked if he should go back to bed. I asked him what he wanted. And for the first time in many years he crawled into the tiniest space in our bed, barely fitting but exactly where he needed to be. He held my hand and drifted immediately back to sleep.

DSC_0032And I stared at him—then at the ceiling, the wall, out the window, listening to him breathe, feeling his grasp, sometimes light other times…

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