The man who sat at the end of my bed every night

This is a glimpse into a personal memory. You might find it frightening, or at the very least very strange. For me it was comforting.

My earliest memory is of lying in bed with a man sitting at the end of it.

He was tall and slim with a bit of stubble on his face. He wore an old collarless cotton shirt, a waistcoat, and a thick, heavy black coat. He had a wide-brimmed hat which he never took off, and in his left hand he held a thick rope tied to a little terrier that sat at his feet.

This man sat at the end of my bed every night, without exception. It is the oldest memory I have and possibly my longest-lasting impression.

He was never there when my parents put me to bed, but as soon as they left the room, he was there. He did not walk into the room. He simply appeared at the end of the bed.

If I was not looking, I knew he was there because I could feel the bed move when he sat down. I could also hear the movement of his clothes and his slow, heavy breathing.

Sometimes I could smell him — a mixture of clothes damp with rain, old hand-rolled tobacco (the tobacco, not the smoke), mud and earth, and that particular smell an adult has when you hug them as a child.

Every night this man sat there, not paying me a great deal of attention. But he would turn his head to look at me and say "sleep now", so I did. That was all he ever said.

When I woke in the morning he was gone. If I woke in the night, he was still sitting there, and he would say "go back to sleep", so I did.

This was a daily routine for me until just after I turned twelve.

It was not frightening having him there. It felt comforting. I liked that he was there watching over me. I felt safe, not alone.

My parents were very conservative and did not want me talking about it with anyone. Mum was a bit curious about him, but I do not remember her ever asking very much. I think they believed I was imagining the whole thing — that was probably the easiest and most logical conclusion for them to come to.

Looking back, my mind tries to construct all sorts of explanations for what I experienced, and none of them feel right. At some point, about twenty years ago, I realised the man was most likely a helper or a guide, and that he was simply making sure I was all right.

I could tell you a great deal about that man — how serious he was, what he did when I was ill, how dark his eyes could go sometimes, and much more. But I do not think that is necessary. I think you get the picture.

I wanted to share this with you, for no particular reason, other than that he has been on my mind lately.

Living the life I live, I find it important to notice the small thoughts, feelings and influences that tickle at the edges of your attention. So, in keeping with the new year's resolution I made this week, I have let my intuition make the decision about what to write about and what to share.

I hope this memory stirs something in some of you, somewhere. If it does, you might be the reason my intuition wanted me to share it.

Happy Sunday everyone, enjoy the rest of your weekend.

Simon

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