God shows a face

"Good night," she says quietly, "I love you," and then she leaves. An expanse of yellow light becomes a beam-- a slice-- a sliver-- a hair stroke-- and is finally soaked back into the hallway.

Between the sliver and the hair stroke, I lose confidence. I bury myself in the sheets and breathe carbon dioxide.

Silence.

When she tucked me in (twice) and sat down next to my knees, when she told me a silly story and bent down to kiss my forehead, when the base notes of her perfume filled the room--back then, the world was full of softness and beauty and grape jelly, and every curtain opened to a bright new adventure and a slow comforting rainfall at once--

Good night, good night...

I am alone, quite possibly forever. Maybe the nights wouldn't always be so bad if they didn't always start so well. I should go to bed all by myself.

I am suddenly aware of the sound of my own pulse in my ears. I strain to hear something from outside, something indicating my mom is awake and moving around. That she hasn't left, that she's talking to my sister or rearranging my brother's shoes by the door. Packing my lunch for school tomorrow. Switching on a lamp to sit down with a book. Keeping a watchful eye on wild boars and bad fairies that would break down my door and tear me to shreds.

Far flies the light...

After a while the upper half of my face emerges from the covers and, despite a growing sense of panic in my stomach, I attempt to use my night vision. I forced down seven and a half carrots at lunch.

Somehow, though, apart from the faint dusky glow on the window blinds, every single thing in my room is the same color. The one called "total absence of color". Which I hate. I really hate that.

But still God's love shall flame above, making all bright.

I'm not even tired, Mom. I can construct a flawless argument for springing up from the bed and locking the door behind me. I could just kind of chill with the grown-ups until morning.

I really could.

I...

Fall asleep.

Maybe my vision is distorted, but God, it seems your moments of reassurance are sporadic compared with the hours and hours when I don't know what you're doing. But you keep coming back, leading me to believe that you never actually left.