Inklings 2022

I lie awake on my mother’s childhood bed, on the green-blue floral quilt under which she slept, with her little stuffed moose resting on her iron headboard. Keenly aware of the little light switch on the popcorn wall next to the bed, I roll over slowly, careful not to hit it and fill the entire room with light. The bed is too tall for me, but also too narrow. It’s not mine, it’s in my grandparents’ home, and maybe that’s why I can’t fall asleep. Or maybe it’s because my tooth is under my mother’s pillow. Maybe it’s because I’m anxiously waiting for El Ratoncito Perez, the tooth fairy’s long-lost Spanish co-worker, to show up and give me a gift, a little bit of cash, maybe even enough for me to buy myself ice cream tomorrow. Or a chocolate bar. But I know he won’t come as long as I’m awake. My grandmother walks in and blesses my dreams. She tells me little angels watch each of the four corners of my mother’s bed, protecting me in my sleep. It’s not fair that the little angels can meet El Ratoncito Perez while I have to sleep. They didn’t have to yank their tooth out. They didn’t have to run to the bathroom with a mouth-full of blood. I did. But I don’t tell her how I envy the little angels. I wish her good night and tell her I love her as she tucks me in. As she walks out the door, leaving me in the dark loneliness of my mother’s childhood bedroom, I close my eyes. I try to sleep, I really do, but real sleep won’t come. I just lie there, in my pretend sleep, making up pretend dreams, hoping if I pretend to sleep well enough, El Ratoncito Perez won’t notice I’m awake. And then I hear someone open the door. I hear heavy, thumping footsteps approaching my mother’s bedside table. They have my grand- father’s walk. But I don’t open my eyes. I keep pretending to sleep, in the event that it’s not my grandfather who walked through the door, but El Ratoncito Perez, just taller, bigger, and louder than I imagined him to be. The Wiggly Truth Alba Uriarte 11