Something is awake.

Light goes on.

Squint.

Fumble for glasses.

A troubled child, clanking two toy trucks.

“Bad dream,” he mumbles.

Dreams are new to him.

They have happened twice this week.

He whimpers, “Scary.”

“What did you dream?” I ask,

Peering into his teary blue eyes.

“Monster truck. Crush me.”

The tears start again.

We all feel that way these days, I want to say,

Crushed, scared;

But instead I cuddle him in a lie,

A dinosaur blanket—peace, love, warmth—saying,

“You are safe.”