TRANSCRIPT

I’m Maggie Smith, and this is The Slowdown. 

As a child, I was afraid of the dark, as I think almost all children are. It’s not the darkness itself that’s scary. It’s the way darkness changes a space, conceals things, and somehow turns the emotional dial from calm to wary. As a child, I needed a nightlight, and I wanted the hall light outside my bedroom left on, and the door left cracked open, just slightly ajar, so a sliver of light from the hall could make its way inside. Light felt protective, as did music, as did covers. If I was tucked in, I felt safe, as if nothing could get at me. 

If I was ever scared, I’m sure my parents came into my room and turned the light on, and they probably said, “Look, it’s just your room. That’s just your dresser and your desk, and there’s the window and the closet, and over there are your toys,” and so on. I’m assuming they did this, because I remember doing it with my own children. Showing them their rooms in the light, turning the light off and then on again to say: “See, it’s all the same. Nothing to be scared of.” But they wanted night lights, and covers, and songs. The imagination is so powerful. We can know logically that we’re safe, and people can tell us — even show us — that we’re safe, but our minds play tricks on us, especially in the dark. 

If I’m being honest, sometimes the dark still gets to me. I still need to sleep under covers, even when it’s unbearably hot. Even just a sheet makes me feel secure enough to fall asleep. It’s completely illogical, but being comfortable enough to sleep isn’t about logic. It’s about feeling.

Today’s poem is one about parents and children, bedtime fears, and the ways we communicate love and safety. It references a lyric from a song I love: “Not Strong Enough” by the band boygenius.

This dark is the same dark as when you close
by R.A. Villanueva

your eyes, I whisper to our son while he

                  catches his breath. It is well past midnight

and he will not describe the face of what

                  he fights to unsee. By his feet, the green


glow of a nightlight retreats into blue, 

                  slips softly to red. Above his bed: notes

we once had time to tape onto the latch

                  of his lunchbox, flights of origami

swans, throwing stars and fortune tellers. When


                  your turn comes to lie beside him, this is

the bridge he’s set to repeat: Always an

                  angel, never a god—and so you hold

him close like a saint shadowed by the axe, 

                  cradling her own haloed head in her hands.

“This dark is the same as the dark when you close" by R. A. Villanueva from A HOLY DREAD © 2026 R. A. Villanueva. Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Alice James Books.