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This poem recalls a night during my teenage years when my sleep was disturbed by a dream, a nightmare really, that Jesus had returned, the rapture had taken place, and I had been left behind.  This was in the days well before the Left Behind “novels” had been written.  No,the books that caused my fears were called “The Rapture,”  “666,” and “The Late, Great Planet Earth,”  all of which were published in the 1970s.  Sometimes when I think about it, I am amazed that I made it out of my childhood alive and sane.

———-

Straining in the dark I see
the gentle rise and fall of
covers
the subtle movement of bodies sleeping.
Straining in the silence I hear
the soft snores of my father
and the softer still sound of my mother’s breathing
The cold of the hard floor enters my feet,
seeps into my heart -
if it were only cold enough to numb
terror . . .
but their constant
snoring and breathing reassures.

Crouching in underwear by their bed.
I am also comforted by the ticking clock,
its luminescent arms are fading
but I can see it is early: 4:00 a.m.

Things are better than I thought.
Mom and Dad are here, asleep,
and I know I am not
alone -
in spite of the contained terror of my
dreams.

Lightly touching their sleeping feet,
just to make sure,
one, two, three – three’s enough,
I then quietly tiptoe back to bed,
praying a quick prayer that no more dreams will
disturb my night.

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