The Bridge

Second Installment of "Rooms I've Lived In"

The vulnerability of a sleeping body has haunted me since I was old enough to observe the chasm between the stability and vigilance of being awake and the absolute surrender of slumber. Consciousness meant a locked door, sound, vision, the amalgam of the senses as security systems. The drift from the waking self is akin to open windows, ambush, and the potential of violation.

As a child, I could only fall asleep holding mom’s slender, manicured hand between our wicker-frame beds. Our arms, a bridge, an assurance that I was not alone. The bedroom itself was an ever-changing stage. All that mattered was the geography between our twin beds.

The bars on the window served less comfort than the faint pulse my small fingers grazed under the delicate skin of her wrist. Only then would I drift, only then did I feel safe to leave my body behind, free to float through vast dimensions lured by the pull of Neutron stars.

There are decades of unrest built up in me. When her arms were no longer there to claw, buried and gone, I held vigil for my own body. This little set of bones and blood and pallid flesh was never far from harm. So, I pushed and prodded, fed her things to keep her wide-eyed and armed with blades beneath her pillow.

Until a soft set of arms reached for me, searching for comfort, pushed up against the beating heart they once felt from within my body. And I stayed, until their little hands went slack and their breathing slowed. Watched them drift off to another stratosphere. Their little bodies are safe to wander, as I have become what I lost. I am their bridge.