A Blanket for the Brave

That 6-year-old was the proudest owner,

Of a single bed and a couple of sheets.

Laid lavishly on the cold hard floor,

In a rented place they called home.

Monsoons meant soggy walls and leaky roofs,

Summers, a dry relentless burn.

And winters arrived wrapped in,

Unsung lullabies and mosquito bites.

Each night, tucked in with a question:

“Can I sleep with you and mom tonight?”

“You can. But aren’t you a brave girl? Brave girls sleep on their own."

Probably not all that brave, but too proud to disappoint.

Quarter after 2, way past 6-year-old's bedtime, 

Morning fairy tales quickly turned to midnight terrors.

Monsters under the bed, imaginations running wild,

Moonlight creatures shifting shapes and forms.

25 years later, on a cold winter's night ,

In a hotel room, miles away from home in some far-off land.

Hardwood floors covered in thick carpets, 

And a bed so big you could fit an entire family.

Half past 12, a full moon that night, 

Working through the silence, like every other night.

Coffees heated and reheated,

Corn flakes and pancakes became a staple meal. 

Emails for breakfast, deadlines for dinner,

Success on paper, peace on hold.

No monsters now, just unread messages, 

Blue screens and blinking cursors.

She pays for warmth now,

Central heating, feathered quilts, candlelight on timers. 

But no voice says, "Aren’t you a brave girl?" 

No arms to fold into when the world feels too big.

The silence isn't loud here,

Just perfectly padded, insulated, curated.

She’s found comfort, but misplaced peace.

That 6-year-old who once feared the night,

Now a grown woman fearing the stillness of her own mind.