My son stood in our doorway and spoke into the dark. “Remember, Mom?” he admonished. “You said you were going to tuck me in.”
It was 5:02 a.m.
I’d last heard this reminder at 3:48 a.m. And before that 3:10 a.m. And before that, sometime between one and two.
I flung the covers that hadn’t even warmed and straggled after my son–my son who’d whispered a sixth time into the same doorway of the same night what he’d thought I’d forgotten.
Only I hadn’t.
At each request I had tucked his growing body back into bed. I’d curled the blue blankets under his toes. I’d wrapped his shoulders like presents. And I’d left a tired kiss in his hair.
But he hadn’t remembered.
I wobbled down the stairs this morning to the tune of an old friend. Stand By Me. And then I added a couple verses of my own.
When the night has come
And my room is dark
And my night light is the only light I see
No I won’t be afraid, no I won’t be afraid
Just as long as you tuck, tuck me in.
And mommy, mommy, tuck me in, oh now tuck me in
tuck me in, tuck me in
If my room that I look around
Should scare me to death
And the shadows on the wall jump around
I might cry, I might cry, yes I might shed a tear
Because I need you to tuck, tuck me in.