Oneirocritica

Small sobs creep as nighttime patter and find their way to my ear. She wakens me at three. Besides this quiet scurry, the house is heavy in its silence. All else in slumber.

In her room the nightlight green, and shimmer of tears on cheek. "I had a bad dream." She does not open her eyes. Arms reach, knowing where I stand. "It's OK," I say. "I'll tuck you in. I'll kiss you. I'll rub her back. Are you snug?"

She is asleep before I leave. Her brother moves in a solitude of dreams, her mother rustles, the dog is snoring. I wonder why no one heard those small cries.

Nightmares do not visit Katherine. Her brother is their frequent favorite, with his visions of schoolyard apocalypse, bridge breaks and supernovas. Quotidian catastrophes. Katherine does not know worry. The world is for her.

I think she caught the ripples of my own dream. When the patter and the scurry of her sadness came, I was trapped in a small space, a classroom or a cabinet. Someone who long hated me had come, and this was going to be the end. My friend turned secret enemy, he who had studied every word and nourished his hurt, stalker and messiah, his promised time arrived.

If you die in your dreams you die. I know those words too well. My son repeats them. I was not going to test. I was not going back to sleep.