Six-and-a-Half Hours
by Janet Defever
You hide in the space
between screen door and deadbolt,
watching as my head hits the pillow,
waiting for my breathing to slow.
You try every entry point,
determined to find your way in
as I turn from left side to right
then back again while the ceiling fan hums.
You find me sleeping,
lost in the best parts of today.
I am easy prey, the perfect victim.
You are invisible, the perfect invader.
You have no conscience
as you twist my memories
and exploit my primal fears.
A coward, only lurking when I’m defenseless.
The blue-uniformed harbinger you send
delivers the same message.
Night after night, year after year.
My five-year-old son is missing.
When I ask the officer if he’ll ever be found,
his eyes go hollow and he simply says no.
I sink into the door frame behind me.
The dreaded answer is always the same.
Unrecognizable faces scurry behind him,
looking at me with pity, then turning away.
They pull their raincoats tight around their shoulders
disappearing into damp, gray darkness.
Without remorse, you vanish,
leaving me gasping for air
as daylight pulls me away
from the chaos you created.
The aftermath clings to every part of me,
falling off in layers as I try to chase the details.
Straight black coffee and streaks of sunshine
set the world right again, but only for now.
I have spent decades trying to outwit you,
feeling powerless to stop your invasions,
until I finally stumble upon the thing that
keeps you locked out of my head for good.
Six-and-a-half hours is the limit--
the amount of sleep I can get before
normal morphs into nightmare.
Inadequate rest has become salvation.
I set an alarm as assurance against your tyranny,
mostly convinced that your reign is over.
I am free from the worst you can deliver,
and you are free to terrorize someone else.
between screen door and deadbolt,
watching as my head hits the pillow,
waiting for my breathing to slow.
You try every entry point,
determined to find your way in
as I turn from left side to right
then back again while the ceiling fan hums.
You find me sleeping,
lost in the best parts of today.
I am easy prey, the perfect victim.
You are invisible, the perfect invader.
You have no conscience
as you twist my memories
and exploit my primal fears.
A coward, only lurking when I’m defenseless.
The blue-uniformed harbinger you send
delivers the same message.
Night after night, year after year.
My five-year-old son is missing.
When I ask the officer if he’ll ever be found,
his eyes go hollow and he simply says no.
I sink into the door frame behind me.
The dreaded answer is always the same.
Unrecognizable faces scurry behind him,
looking at me with pity, then turning away.
They pull their raincoats tight around their shoulders
disappearing into damp, gray darkness.
Without remorse, you vanish,
leaving me gasping for air
as daylight pulls me away
from the chaos you created.
The aftermath clings to every part of me,
falling off in layers as I try to chase the details.
Straight black coffee and streaks of sunshine
set the world right again, but only for now.
I have spent decades trying to outwit you,
feeling powerless to stop your invasions,
until I finally stumble upon the thing that
keeps you locked out of my head for good.
Six-and-a-half hours is the limit--
the amount of sleep I can get before
normal morphs into nightmare.
Inadequate rest has become salvation.
I set an alarm as assurance against your tyranny,
mostly convinced that your reign is over.
I am free from the worst you can deliver,
and you are free to terrorize someone else.
Janet Defever is a fourth-generation steward of her family’s mid-Michigan Centennial Farm, The Defever Homestead. Her love of nature and writing, combined with her experience as an MSU Advanced Master Gardener, were the beginning of the year-round children’s programs that she hosts at The Homestead. Her first children’s book, Second Chance Christmas, was published in 2022.