Connecticut and sleep

I walk out of my cousins bathroom door to hear my 7-year-old brother Isaiah's frenzied crying.
Tizzy crying, never steady.
Never a reason.

I walk over to his bed, getting a now clear view of his cross-legged silohuette heaving.
Leaning down, I ask him what the matter is. He's stammering-he can't clearly tell me.
I ask a bit more, hushed talking.
Lach is sleeping next to us. He won't wake up.
Isaiah-he-starts stammering. Flustered. I doubt he can explain.
PUtting my hand on his back, I lay him down still curious about what happened.
He's quiet and peaceful. Harm is ended after I say I'm here.

I sing and rub his back.

I was like this. I remember being this little. You were scared. Every now and then, a strange face appeared. The wouldn't leave. You felt they couldnt You were safe. You never wanted them too. Nothing could take them away.
Kissing him some, I hummed.

He fell asleep before he could tell me.