Master of Scenarios

A young girl is compelled to write in the middle of the night

Mother reads a bedtime story about a girl alone at home

“Be quiet and stay out of sight. Stay inside, you mustn’t roam”

That’s what the girl’s mother says

Mother kisses my forehead and turns off the light

She closes my door most of the way, but not shut tight

A thin glowing line shines around the door, where the parade begins

These tiny things – tiny creatures – float across the floor

While the man in charge of the parade stands outside my bedroom door

I never see him, but I know he’s there

The tiny things fade away before they reach my bed

I count them sometimes, like counting sheep, Mother once said

I fall asleep, always missing the end of the parade

Another night of nightmares, he said I would have two or three

I run and seek a place to hide before he catches me

I run and trip and fall – again, as always

As he gets close, I freeze and pray, “Eye, eye, eye!”

And among the clouds the eye appears high up in the sky

I don’t know why I do this – the eye frightens me

I awake at 1:11, always at this time of night

At least the scary part is over – now, it’s time to write

Nobody knows I do this, not even Mother

I turn on my light and take paper and pen from my bedside table drawer

I put the paper on Mother’s book, and I lay on the floor

The cover is a little bumpy, so my writing is too

Where I stopped last night, two friends were running from a madman

But now I think they’ll turn and fight – they’ll execute a bold plan

And I think I’ll make this part rhyme – but that’s hard

In the morning, on the school bus, sunlight flickers and flashes through the trees

This stabs at my eyes – not another headache, please, please

And in that flickering light, somehow, I see the man who stands outside my bedroom

At recess, while collecting pretty leaves, I suddenly hear the man say

“Stop and be still for ten seconds, and then you may continue to play”

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten

On the bus ride home, I don’t look out the window

I keep my head down and study my shadow 

It floats on the back of the seat in front of me – though I’m not sure that’s me

At home I eat peanut butter on crackers while watching cartoons

That’s my favourite part of day, at least on certain afternoons

But now I hear Mrs. Friedman’s car horn – it’s time for Hebrew school

There we watch a movie I’ve seen many times before

The Holocaust with dead, bony, naked bodies during the last world war

My teacher says, “Never again, never again!” and we all say this together

Mother begins tonight’s reading, as always, by cradling her book and saying

“Your Grandmother left us her stories and to read them is our way of praying”

I don’t know who or what I’m praying to, but I never say that

On my bedside table, mother lays the book she made

Soon, the man outside my door will start tonight’s parade 

He’ll say how many nightmares I’ll have – perhaps two or three

And I will wake at 1:11, in the middle of the night

It will feel somehow important to turn on the light and write

Mother closes the door, but not the whole way, not shut tight