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Making my bed was easy, mornings as a kid,
‘Cause I never kicked the blankets off; in stead, what I did
Was to inch my body quite carefully out into the day,
Smooth the covers, fluff the pillow, and I was on my way.
An independent lad was I, the ballfield was my ‘druther.
And yet when it was bedtime I would call upon my mother.
My blankets were unruffled, already tucked in tight,
But I wanted Mom’s full attention before we switched the light.
“Tuck me in, Mom,” I’d say. It was our little prayer.
“Then, if I wake in the night you are still there.”
. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
“Then, if I wake in the night you are still there.”
Sixty springtimes, sixty summers gone, yes, that was long ago.
I’ve tucked in my own children, who now are fully grown.
I sat with them at bedtime, tucked blankets under chins --
To “FaceTime” with them on Sundays brings back what’s important.
"Read me a story, Dad. Sing me a song.
Then through the night I will know, nothing is wrong."
Visits with Mom are poignant -- these days as we age.
It’s right now or old memories when we share the stage.
She reads about being present and how one should forgive.
She’s less, “we’ve got to change the world,” more how better to live.
She brings up hurts once blamed on me, seen now in a better light.
I have to laugh, forgive us both, who seldom got it right.
Of her memories in which I feature, her favorite is the prayer:
“Tuck me in so if I wake, Mom, you’re still there.”
“Tuckered out early, Mom? Will you nap in your chair?
This silk mask will soften the glare; Know that I care.”
“Tuck me in, Mom,” I’d say. It was our little prayer.
“Then, if I wake in the night you are still there.”