A Flicker in the Night

I remember when I was a little kid, Mama always tucked me into bed at night. She’d kiss my forehead, pull the covers up under my chin, and turn on the small, squat TV on my dresser.

It was my favorite part of the day.

Mama had this perfume – it smelled like lavender and vanilla. Wherever she went, the smell followed, clinging to her like a mist. I’d lie in the soft, flickering glow of the TV, breathing deeply, listening to the low murmur of my parents’ voices and their own TV out in the living room.

It was peaceful. It was safe.

I remember how my eyelids grew heavy, sliding slowly over my eyes like raindrops down a window. Still, I forced myself to stay awake. But it wasn’t so I could watch the Disney movie Mama had turned on. I struggled to remain on the surface of consciousness so I’d be awake when Mama came back to check on me before she and Dad went to bed for the night.

She always came back.

She’d slowly push the door inward, being extra quiet so as not to wake me, and tiptoe across the room, avoiding the one floorboard that always squeaks when stepped on. Then the TV would blink off, plunging the room into darkness.

But Mama always found her way to my bed.

 I could smell her in the darkness as she came closer, laying a cool hand on my face to brush away my hair. I remember how I would pretend to float out of a light sleep, eyes flickering open slowly as she leaned down to kiss my forehead. She’d whisper softly in the night:

“Go back to sleep.”

She didn’t know that I stayed awake just to see her one more time before slipping into sleepy oblivion.

Last night, Mama went to bed one last time, but I wasn’t awake when she came in.

 The smell of her perfume lingers in my room. I lay awake, covers pulled up tightly under my chin.

I can’t sleep.

So I turn on the TV.