Maybe Not Now, Nor Ever!

The mellow night slips to the crisp air of the dimmed lit room, a bible story book – ready to read before bed – a pastime for a somewhat catholic household. The child grabbed a blanket for comfort immersing to one of those in the movies.  A book and a curious mind—page after page—the sound of the paper solely echoes the room. 

As pages flipped, the hands ran through the passing hour. The child yawns, eyelids ready to rest; signals to conclude the stories of faith. Getting ready to enter the slumber, the cold wind whiffs the child—signaling its senses to close the windows and door. Reaching the window, the sharp cold breeze sends shivers down to the spine. The child felt somewhat off—as if the air around grew thin—as if something the room wasn’t ready to hear. 

Closing the window, a crackle of laughter came from the living room television. A comedy show. The boy recognized the background—a late night comedy show, with artists moving vivaciously, totally infecting the studio with laughter. From the boy’s point of view, he too was amused by the banter of the hosts. Then, a loud nonsense of words were spouted by the so called protector of the house, yet he never felt truly protected. 

The boy paused momentarily, questioning if someone like that truly lives up the values of the one beyond. The kid tried to do something, yet something in his heart halted what was supposed to be his adversary.

He was afraid to name.

He slid the window shut and locked it, as if locking away the thought itself. He returned to his bed, but the coldness lingered—not from the wind, but from the words in the next room, tossed so casually, as if they were harmless.

He curled into his blanket. His fingers trembled—not out of fear exactly, but out of knowing. A kind of knowing he wished he could forget.

He prayed, softly. Not the recited prayers from the bible, but the kind whispered only to the dark. The room offered no reply. Only the distant murmur of his father’s voice, still complaining about the people on the screen. Still believing he knew what was right, what was normal, what was allowed.

And the child, wrapped in his blanket and his silence, realized something that tightened his chest: whatever truth lived inside him, he would have to learn to protect it. Not because it was wrong, but because the world inside his house wasn’t ready to hear it.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

But the thought did not disappear. It stayed—steady, patient—as if waiting for the day it could step into the light without trembling.