Sleepover

Sleepover

When you are old and fading
and young again,
I will clasp your hand
like the child that I am.
Like it’s bedtime,
and just one more story—
a short one.
Just the Hungry Caterpillar
or Goodnight, Moon,
or both, because they are short.
Just ten more minutes.
Seven. Eleven.
Nine’s my final offer.
Just check the closet,
under the bed,
just one more time.
One more kiss,
one more hug—
a long one.
A reminder that it’s only
wind and thunder,
that all storms pass
and this one, too.
Maybe a sleepover, though.
My blanket’s better than yours
and there’s plenty of room
and we can be twins
and if you stay,
the minutes won’t matter—
just this.
Just my head on your shoulder.
Just Goodnight, Caterpillar.
Just old, young.
Just one more.