I sit awake with you
in the scary midnight darkness,
telling you everything is okay,
calming you down after a dream,
holding your hand as you wander,
searching through the house
for remains of your former life.
I sit as you sleep in your chair,
when you won't go back to bed,
knowing you will wake in terror,
afraid of a dream, afraid of not knowing,
afraid of everything.
And sometimes you won't hear,
my words will be as meaningless
as the ones you sometimes say.
And perhaps you will reach out,
sometimes searching, sometimes striking;
I'm here for you, whatever you need;
I'll even be your punching bag.
But I can't fix things for you;
I can't bring your memories back.
They are gone, just like the house
and people you search for.
All I can do is sit and wait
with you for the approaching dawn
when things will look a little better
illuminated by the light of day.

Written January 1995
Copyright 1995-2002
Published in book, Waiting for the Morning (Writer's Club Press/iUniverse, 2001)