I was afraid to close my eyes,
scared He’d get me in bed—
my thin body covered
by a sheet with Peanuts characters.
Every night I’d scream, but no one
ever came, until I wondered
if I was making any noise at all—
my throat raw with disappointment.
God watched me for months—
eyes two pinpricks of light—glaring
down from the ceiling’s light fixture.
When I finally told him,
my father waited until dark,
turned out the lights,
and tracked the eyes to their source—
a reflection cast by my nightlight.
Did my father fix it out of love?
Or was he worried God
would see what he was doing?