In the darkness of your broken nightlight,
you whispered stories to yourself
until you fell asleep.
Ogres and wolves were all that haunted your dreams.
Monsters were slain
with swords and tricks
by a hero, clever and brave, quick on his feet,
everything you were supposed to be.
You shot up like a beanstalk,
left the fairies and gillikins far behind;
no fair playing with giants—
you were not a child anymore.
Now, you are too old for such youthful things,
concrete solutions for concrete problems and all that,
desperate measures for the desolate years ahead,
no more fighting dragons for you.
X marks the spot where you buried your treasure.
Dig it up and maybe you’ll find something better hidden there,
still lying awake in the darkness,
listening to Taylor Swift sing you love songs over the radio,
until you drift off into something like sleep.
Waking up to bright morning light,
Momma asks, “How’d you get through the night?”
leaving you to wonder
which monsters are left to fight.
Somewhere out there, a hero still sings
of flying and fighting, wishing and dreaming
that one day, soon or never,
you’ll be older, wiser, not in a hurry anymore.
They always said, “To everything a season,”
but joy should last forever, don’t you think?
Or at least until sunset, or until you grow up.
***
Monica Postma studied English Literature at UCCS and spends way too much time reading, watching weird vampire TV shows, and drinking coffee. Sometimes she even manages to eke out time in her day devoted to writing.
