With My Imagination
Something wakes me. I hear drumming. Is it the wind? We’ve had high winds lately. An intruder? I hope not.
It’s 12:10 a.m. and if I were nine again, I’d climb under the covers,head and all, until the monsters went away, but I’m not nine again.
My school resource officer says my idea of using a 20 foot-shootin’ can of bug spray to stop an intruder might be a good idea if my aim is good and I hit the intruder in the eyes—with the spray or the can.
And then I remember I ran out of bug spray during the summer—while spraying wasp nests. My supply is nil. I'm on my own.
So, as I always do, I leap out of bed and race through my bedroom to flip on the light switch. I hurry down the hallway and flip on another light switch. I race through the darkened dining room because I believe in running head-on in to “drumming” monsters. I hit a wall—literally then turn on–you guessed it, the light switch. The dining room is lit. The kitchen is lit. The living room was already lit with my heavy duty security nightlight. No need to go there.
Now, I race through another doorway for the last switch on my itinerary that will shed light on the family room. I still hear the drumming. But, it seems to be getting louder and reminds me of a steady heartbeat which makes my groggy mind think of Edgar Allan Poe and The Tell-TaleHeart.
By this time my adrenaline has diminished. I can’t make myself go to the last two rooms, the utility room or the upstairs bedroom to shed light on the (hopefully) light sensitive drummers. Instead, I opt to peek out the double doors and flip on (repeat with me) the light switch. Light switches have always helped me be braver.
Then, I recognize the drumming sound as rain that I hadn’t heard in months.
It was raining. I had heard the rain. I turned off all light switches and crawled back in bed wanting the rain drumming on the roof to lure me back to sleep.
It’s 12:15 a.m. My eyes are wide open.
I love my imagination, but not at 12:15 a.m. Aren't you glad you're not me?