Confronting fear.
My uncle was visiting one evening when the lights in the neighborhood flickered out, and dad was at work having been called in. Uncle Hank decided he could or would help me overcome this fear of the dark. Together we sat upstairs on the edge of my bed, lights out. No flashlight or candle. Speaking calmly to me, “relax, there is nothing to fear. We are all in the house. You can hear us talking downstairs, so just breathe.” He stepped out.
“I am right here on the top step,” he assured me, “just bounce on the bed.”
I did.
I could hear the next step creak. “I’m on the second step.” This reminded me how most scary stories start. This never ends well.
“Bounce.”
I repeated this process over and over and over, each time with, “I’m still here.”
Finally, I heard him walking up the stairs, closer until he appeared around the corner and entered my room while I sat there still bouncing on the bed, springs creaking, holding tight to the bedspread.
Pretty sure he felt I was now cured. I was not about to disagree for fear he would restart the whole charade over. No. No. No.
I still was afraid of the dark. It did not cure me.
When spending the night with Paul, at uncle Hank’s, bed time meant shades close, door closed, and lights out. I would lie on my side, eyes wide open, listing to the sounds of a nearby train yard adjacent to the Sears, Roebuck and Co. warehouse, as trains passed by during the night until finally I would fall asleep. Occasionally reawakening and starting this process over.
We were home. Near family. Familiar sights and sounds abound. Parents lived 1.1 miles away at 500 Beecher Street, so close, a built-in babysitter! Keith would start kindergarten, September 4th, and to add to the mix, I was expecting, again. Our home is an upgrade compared to living in a basement or even a nondescript apartment.
Now in my twenties, routines fixed, high school friends scattered, a military spouse, a few acquaintances in the neighborhood, and marriage intact. Some days wondering about tomorrows.
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