Night terror

My sweet boy wakes up screaming; he rambles unintelligible terrified mutterings between deep sobs. I hold him, kiss his blonde head, tell him it's alright. He settles intermittently, whimpering and then sitting up again to sob and keen.

Because there was a time when this occured several times a week, I know what to do for this neurological quirk: turn on the lights (even though he is asleep he will see shadows and incorporate them into whatever scary event is in his dream), soothe him any way I can, don't try to wake him. Sometimes it's 10 minutes, sometimes several hours.

It hurts to hear him cry this way, to see him so miserable and know he can't hear or see me. But I try to reach him through the scent of my body that nursed him, through my touch on his skin, my voice that sings and laughs with him in daylight. And from somewhere in his terror state, he knows I am there, grabs hold of me and begins to settle into a more peaceful sleep.

In the morning he will not remember. To me, he will seem more precious, more vulnerable. More mine.