The Light Ball

“It’s time for your bedtime shoes,” Mom said, leaning over my crib and stroking my head. She placed the pair of toddler leathers onto the mattress.
Every night for over two years, my mom wrestled socks onto my feet and, finally, the shoes. 

So many nights, I fought her, kicking her hands away from my feet. I hated those shoes, but she forced them onto me anyway. They scrunched my toes from the start. I despised the confinement. 

She pulled the shoelaces tight, twisting them into a knot, then another. There they would stay, precisely how she tied them, just as they had every night before. 

A metal bar between the shoes spread them apart, holding my feet locked. I tried to kick with one foot, but the other always followed. The bar continually pressed against the soles and arches. 
My older sister had worn these same shoes when she started to walk; now, it was my turn. The leather, thinned from use, gave way to the metal bar; I was sure it would push through into my feet.

Mom must have hated this nighttime ordeal, too. She pulled the blankets over my shoes and legs, snuggly tucking me in. “You need these shoes, Regina,” she would remind me. “Your sister had to wear them too. They will help you walk.”

“I don’t need them!” I argued in 2-year old babble. “I can already walk.” I dreaded those white shoes. Yet they would be a part of my toddler life for the next couple of years.

My legs lay stiff on the crib mattress, giving up the fight. 
Mom would straighten up and stretch the small of her back. “There,” she would say. “You’re all set for your dreams.” 
Leaning over the rail, she kissed me good night. 
“Buenas noches, y dulces sueños mi Regina. Duermes con los angeles” (Spanish: “Good night, and sweet dreams my little Regina. Sleep with the angels.”) 
I loved it when she spoke Spanish. Those melodic sounds interspersed her daily conversation with English and German, yet I cherished her sweet Spanish when she kissed me good night.  

My brothers, ages eight and nine, shared my room. They’d hide from Mom’s kisses under the covers in their bunk beds. They hated sharing their room with their baby sister, but it was the only space for my crib. 

Mom turned out the small light atop the boys’ desk. The room clicked dark. 
My favorite time of the night.
The only light that shone entered our room from the evening sky. And I could finally say hello to my friend. I babbled out to it in toddler-speak. “You can come in now.”  

“Shut up!” My brother yelled from the lower bunk.

I lay quiet. Waiting for my friend to enter the room through the long window above my crib.
___

Too anxious to fall asleep, I struggled to stand in my crib. Finally, grabbing the rail, I pulled myself up, the bar between my shoes steadying my feet. I craned my neck to look over the window sill by my crib. But I was too short. 

Still, I waited; I knew my friend was coming. I could feel it.

Eventually, a small illumination entered my room, gently lighting the space. Finally, the light drew into itself, condensing into a glowing essence. 
And then, it was here —
My friend —a ball of light. 

I reached out to it as it lingered, floating between my crib and my brothers’ bunks. Finally, it slipped itself over to me, settling into my palm. Cupping my tiny fingers, this toy of light, I passed it from one hand to the other. It gently floated through the air. It was as warm and loving as my mother’s kiss on my hands. 

Then, the light began to talk to me, pulsing thoughts as images. We spoke, passing mental pictures back and forth. A toddler’s mind chatting with a ball of light. We communicated silently. I didn’t want my brothers to take this toy from me. I was sure they would wake, grab the ball, and throw it out because that’s what they did to tease. Anything to make me cry, so my parents would have to take me out of my crib and set me to sleep in a recliner in their bedroom. 

So, in silence, I played with my light toy as it taught me about the universe.
____

For the next five years, this lighted orb visited me repeatedly. I was an adult when I realized that my other siblings never saw the ball of light. 

The information it shared telepathically has supported me throughout my life. I still can feel when the beings of light are near me today. I no longer see them or it. Yet the knowledge this energy shares continues to share with me has dramatically expanded my universe. 
____

Note. 
Recently, I was told that our neighbor to the east of my childhood home, where the light orbs swept over, had also been visited. He said they communicated telepathically with him. And he has photos of the lighted spheres floating near him while outdoors.