Henry

I do believe in spooks. I do, I do, I do believe in spooks.” [It’s like the mantra of an agnostic, no? But already I digress.]

Henry visited the 11 year old last night. He wore denim overalls, kind of like a baby. He had a red hat, like an old aviator hat that babies wear today. He was short, too. But most of all, he was scary. A nightmare, to be frank.

When I was a kid, I always had to close the closet door before getting into bed. The times that I thought that it was too stupid to give in to my imagination and left the doors opened ended with me turning back on the lights and closing the closet doors. I was irrationally afraid.

The only thing that worked for me was to really push the fear out of my mind. Not to rationalize and say there wasn’t anything there. To just force myself to think of things like rainbows and teddy bears or riding a roller coaster. I couldn’t rationalize my fears away. I had to ignore them.

Henry who?

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