The Smallest Torch

For the second time in recent days, Hunk tottered into my room in the wee hours, the beam of his little Ace flashlight leading the way. Not a necessity, as the sun was on its way up, but that little tool is his special 'security blanket.'

I was sound asleep, of course, my ears filled with foam rubber, but a part of me has been on alert since the birth of my first child, 25 years ago. So I quickly came to and pulled one stopper out. "Hey Dad, what's up? What's going on?"

"It's your mother, she's furious," he says.

I take a deep breath, having witnessed her fury. The digital shows it's only 5:15, and I can imagine the whole, sad scene.

"I was only asking if there's anything I could do for her," he tells me. In the past, he would ask and she would say get her some juice, or something. Now "she just berates me, and I don't know what I've done wrong!"

I sit up and show him the clock. "Here Dad, this is the problem. See? It's 5:15... it's too early for her to want juice. She's probably had a bad night's sleep and she just wants that."

I have him sit on the edge of my bed for a minute, patting his bony back. "And you know, she's probably scared, Dad. And angry... about this disease you have. She doesn't know how to handle it and so she lashes out at you. Or whatever... " I ball a fist in frustration. "It makes me mad that she does, but mostly it's about her wanting a full night's rest."

"Well," he suggests, "I will just go lie down next to her and not say anything until she says something first."

"Yeah, Dad, that sounds good. She will tell you when she's ready for juice, okay? But it certainly won't be before 6:00, you know. So see if you can just relax for a while, okay?"

He sighs. "Ok, but if you think of any way to help, well" and his tiny voice trails off. He maneuvers back to standing and shuffles on out, his little beam lighting the way.