Nights of my childhood, he made his rounds,
the old sereno with his dim flashlight
whose batteries were always dying out.
I found out why: the maids would borrow them
to play their little radio all day long.
(How else keep up their spirits but with song?)
In their distraction, I would slip away
to the sereno’s hut, waiting for him
to wake up midday, grim-eyed, sour-faced.
“What do you want?” He’d shoo me off to play.
Even back then, I was impressed by him:
his wise-man face; his narrowed, piercing eyes;
his lack of interest in frivolities—
untangling my kite string, baiting my line.
He was worn out with carrying the load
of all he’d seen during his dark patrols.
Some nights, he’d stop—I’d hold my breath
until his footsteps passed—All’s well. Dream on.
Sereno was the name I knew him by.
Serene and dew of night, his homonyms.
A lifetime later, I’ll wake up mid-night,
to utter silence—2 A.M.! That time
when our eternal, mortal loneliness;
the losses that await us or have come
steal like intruders into our sleepless minds.
“What do I want?” the ancient question lurks.
Serenity, to bear the heavy load
with grace. High spirits to inspire the heart
with song and not alarm the ones I love—
those dreamers who will soon be waking up.