It’s the night before the night before Christmas and a memory from my childhood fills the empty space of our quiet home on a quiet block.

Culley Jane is out of it upstairs in bed. In the old days we would have said that she had caught a bad cold, but I don’t know what it’s called anymore.

Things are not the same.

I hear her cough off in the distance.

And then the house is as quiet as it was before.

The cats are quiet. They’ve been keeping close to her all day. Her temperature has crept back down below 101. I do have a degree in nursing, so I know that everything is going to be all right.

Once again I’m a child, waking from a terrifying dream that Santa’s not real.

The house is so quiet.

My thoughts scream.

The doctors say to take the pill and keep quiet.

Gone are the noisy old days of clak-clak-clakkity black-and-white Smith-Coronas. The computer keyboard is almost silent. I can write without disturbing her sleep.

It was the night before the night before Christmas… I hear a voice calling out to me from the rubble. I hear you. I too was a child once. If only I could make everything all right.