Inanimate Gods

You remember this, of course you do. If you have any shred of your youth there is the smell, the touch of a blanket which was your own. It had magic powers that no one but you knew about, and your siblings of course. You would share it when nightmares rose you in frighted breath from the torpor which clutched you in mother fashion.

No. Don’t leave your bed, or try to turn on the light, the fears which creep like catterpillars across your flesh might be more frightening illuminated than in the dank dark recesses of your frail yet powerfully boundless imagination. But the blanket. It was god. It was inanimate god. Without a harsh word, simply jump under, hope mommy will come and hear your whimpering calls before the beast which creeped could find you.