Some nights rain is a refuge, the foghorn's blast a blessing murmured half asleep. She finds all the hidden places on those nights, piles memories on like worn quilts, forgets to listen for steps on the stairs. She reaches for nothing, lets the curtains stay open, leaves the candle be. What's a little darkness?
Once she tasted night from a knife's edge in small, hard slices, but over time she has learned the art of the spoon, the small stir and sip, the warm, burnished curve that cools on the tongue, but never turns cold. Night rain can fall all it wants. She has her pages and cups and the rise and fall of a small life that needs hers.
To be needed in the dark. That is something to hook her heart and hold it fast until the light returns.
