In the four ‘o clock hour, I flung the covers quickly at the sound of my son sobbing. I squished into his bottom bunk and lay facing him, my right arm pressing him to me.
“A sad dream,” he cried. “Really sad.” He sobbed, agonized by his own thoughts. And I soothed with whispers; I loved him with every pore of my being.
In the five ‘o clock hour, I tapped out. And my husband held our boy until he breathed easy in his sleep.
By the seven ‘o clock hour, our son had bounced out of bed with an empty stomach and could be heard plucking things from the pantry.
By seven-thirty, he’d butted through our bedroom door with the report that the cat had caught a bird and brought it into the house.
At seven thirty-five, the update came that the cat had actually caught two birds and the one in the house was still alive.
At seven forty-five, my son dangled a plastic Fred Meyer bag above my pillow and assured me not to worry. He’d caught the bird.
At seven fifty, the final bird report came. It’d clung to his finger, he said, before it ‘flewed’ away.
At eight a.m., I took a shower. It, uh, seemed the right thing to do.