Bedtime

Bedtime - Priya Gowda (Alexander W. Dreyfoos School of the Arts, Twelfth Grade)

When my mom says goodnight to me in bed,

It’s like I’m just a seven-year-old again,

tucked into a giant, queen sized bed

to someone only a little over four feet tall.

I miss the feeling of being enveloped in my quilted comforter,

the way my mother misses my height.

She turns on the bedside lamp before turning off the ceiling light

so that I’m not left in the dark.

Looking at the fan, now, gently sweeping air,

I remember, as child, thinking the ceilings were so high,

I couldn’t reach the fan even if I jumped from my bed.

Mother walks over and sits on the edge of the mattress,

kissing my forehead, cracking her knuckles at the side of my head

to protect me from the evil eye while I sleep.

She whispers a mantra every night,

Ket kannella bitsut hogli, let the evil eye leave,

telling me to sleep well and to have good dreams.

It’s almost like a lullaby, her voice breathy and light,

like she’s just speaking a melody, not even singing.

I can hear the steady sound of my heartbeat in my ear,

ear to the pillow.

The room is hazy as mom turns off the lamp,

and I start to nod, as she says Good night, I love you.

Her words fade, echoing through the dark room.

And, I can feel her getting up,

hear her walking across carpeting,

smell her faded perfume

as the fan mixes her presence with everything else,

leaving behind only the scent of my first room.