Every Night at 3:33 I Wake Frozen, and the Hallway Light Is Already On
I never leave the hall light on. But when the paralysis takes me at 3:33 exactly, it is always burning, throwing a long shadow across my floor that has no one to cast it.
I never leave the hall light on. But when the paralysis takes me at 3:33 exactly, it is always burning, throwing a long shadow across my floor that has no one to cast it.
I meant to text my group chat that I was lowering my expectations and would flee if he chewed weird. I texted the date instead. Somehow it became the best opening line of my life.
Our twins shared one invisible friend, 'Old Pete', who lived 'behind the fence lady's house' — and both announced his departure, separately, the night our elderly neighbour died.
Our family clock has stopped four times in my life. Each time, someone died within a day. I found the maker's note tucked behind the face and now I understand less than before.
I chalked up the chest pressure to indigestion and went to bed. My cat clawed at me, knocked things off the nightstand, and yowled until I finally called for help.
She showed me the shot once, on the back of the camera, at 11pm behind the marquee. Then she deleted it and told me she needed the review.
I fell through a frozen pond and was under for forty minutes. There was a tunnel, a light, a full reckoning of my life, and then, against every medical odd, a warm hand pulling me back.
Our store ran out of bananas for four hours because a truck broke down. One man took it as a personal catastrophe, and I said the one thing you must never say to an angry customer.
A routine road, a bad feeling, and a driver who trusted his gut over the map. This is the closest I have ever come, and the reason I still call a man I served with every single year on the same date.
It fell into step at the end of my street, a big black dog with no collar, and stayed at my heel the whole mile home. It vanished at my gate. My brother had gone an hour before.
A picture flashed into my head of my sister's car spinning on wet road. I called her without knowing why. What she was about to do when the phone rang stops my breath even now.
Every firstborn in my family for four generations has been forbidden from the water. Grandma called it the promise. I called it superstition -- until I read the church record.
Marmalade was the laziest cat alive until the night he clawed my face and howled at a spot on the wall. I nearly threw him outside. Instead I called the gas company.
A colleague sat across from me in a meeting while, at the same time, three people on the floor below swore he was arguing with the printer. Same shirt, same time, two rooms.
I looked away for fifteen seconds. In that time my two-year-old made it to the deep end. Our old lab, who could barely walk anymore, got there before the water did.
He sat two feet from me for a year with a jam jar of human teeth on his desk. When I finally reported it, I was the one who got a talking-to about being a team player.
It started with six inches of cedar in the wrong place. It ended with a resignation, a restraining order, and a group chat nobody could ever un-read. All over a fence.
The window had been shut all winter. Yet a robin was sitting on the back of my father's chair when I came downstairs, calm as anything, waiting.
Every time I wake frozen he is in the same spot, a tall silhouette in a wide-brimmed hat, hands folded, waiting. I have never seen his face. I am not sure I want to.
He said a family thing came up and asked me to tag along. I walked into a church full of people in black and realized my first date was a funeral -- and then he asked me to give a eulogy.