Goodnight, Everything

Wren was four, and four is the perfect age for goodnights.

She lay in her bed with the lamp still on — the little one that glowed amber, like a firefly had agreed to stay still for the night. Her mother sat on the edge of the bed.

"Ready?" her mother asked.

"Nearly," said Wren.

There were goodnight-things to attend to first.

"Goodnight, floor," said Wren.

Her floor was wooden and warm and she had spent the whole day on it building things and drawing things and lying on her tummy reading. It deserved a goodnight.

"Goodnight, window," she said.

The window was where the day had come in and now the dark was looking through, soft and patient.

"Goodnight, moon," she said — because the moon was right there, silver and round, just past the glass.

The moon said nothing, but it stayed, which was its way of saying goodnight back.

"Goodnight, today," said Wren.

Today had had toast in the morning and a puddle at lunchtime and a story before nap and a very good apple in the afternoon. It had been a full day. It deserved to be said goodbye to properly.

"Goodnight, yesterday," she added, because yesterday had been good too, and it would feel left out.

Her mother smiled.

"Goodnight, garden," said Wren.

The garden was dark now, all the daytime things tucked into themselves — the roses with their petals pulled in, the robin on his branch with his head under his wing, the one brave worm still moving through the grass (she'd seen him at bedtime last Tuesday, going somewhere important).

"Goodnight, big tree," she said. "Goodnight, small tree. Goodnight, the flower that was red today."

Her mother made a soft sound that was almost a laugh, but a kind one.

"Goodnight, kitchen," said Wren.

The kitchen had made soup tonight. The kitchen always did its best.

"Goodnight, cat," she said.

Their cat — a grey one called Fog — was asleep on the chair in the corner. She said this quietly so as not to disturb him.

"Goodnight, books."

The books were on the shelf, all their words resting. She had read three of them today and started a fourth. They would wait for her.

"Goodnight, all the people I love," said Wren.

She went through them carefully. Her mother. Her father. Her grandmother with the soft hands. Her friend at nursery who shared her sandwich without being asked. The librarian who remembered her name.

She paused.

"Goodnight, people I haven't met yet," she added.

Her mother looked at her. "The people you haven't met yet?"

"They're out there," said Wren simply. "They might as well know goodnight too."

Her mother reached over and turned off the amber lamp.

The room went the soft, gentle dark of almost-asleep — not the big dark, just the little dark, the one that feels like a blanket rather than a hole.

"Goodnight, dark," said Wren.

Then: "Goodnight, stars."

Then, so quietly it was almost just breath: "Goodnight, me."

Her mother kissed her forehead.

"Your turn," her mother said.

"I know," said Wren.

She closed her eyes.

Outside, the moon held still. The garden breathed. The cat shifted in his sleep. The books waited on their shelf.

Everything was said goodnight to.

Everything was ready.

And Wren — who noticed the world more carefully than most people twice her age — let the night take her gently, and slept.

The End.