(June 13)

Earlier in the evening, I’d turned on my back porch light in order to investigate the lock on the back door. I know, I’d already looked it over twice before, but the night was falling and I wanted to be sure it was secure before settling in. At the time I thought, what harm would it be, to keep the light on and bathe the back in light, to not let the shadows creep so far as to press up against the glass.

But now, curled up against my front window, I can only stare at the back patio with a rising sense of terror in my chest. The light didn’t do so much as break up the shadows but provide them a stage. The light was waiting for something to be lit.

Sit. Watching. Staring through the glass. The suspense building as tension becomes certainty. It’s a matter of when, now. When the black figure will creep across the glass, left to right, one end to the other, without detail, black, without acknowledgment, just passing, a creature of the night, up to something. Too close to my house, it involves me, he’s acting against me. He’s not afraid of the light.

Watch out the back window for the darkness to come slinking around, hesitating.  Reaching for a light switch.

Pause.

Flipping the switch off, face to face with the glass, a clarity to the outside. Muddled thoughts, encircling a question, dilemma. Is it more frightening to see the monster bold in the light? Or give it means to hide?