We say goodnight to her at the same time every evening. She looks up at us from her bed, eyes still bright, not yet made heavy by the epilepsy medication. We have our routines, the songs we sing, the cuddly toys that come in for a goodnight kiss. Our routines feel like spells, cast to keep out those other nights, the nights when routine collapses around us; nights spent watching out for blue flashing lights, nights of fevers, seizures, retching, and choking. We cast our spells, hoping that the magic will take us through into the brightness of another day.
Bill Cox lives in Aberdeen, Scotland with his family. His work has been published in many places. Don’t go looking. Just take his word for it.