Fear

.



At 2:30, the dog woke with a shake. I followed her through the dark house and unlocked the door to the carport. Outside, the overhead light had burned out.

The night air was thick under a heavy moonless sky. In the garden, looming masses pressed onto the driveway, dogwoods indistinguishable from beautyberries.




After several long minutes, the dog ran back to the door. We slipped inside quickly. My hand shook as I fumbled with the key in the lock. Finally, I heard the click.



Back in bed, an hour passed. Beside the nightstand, fear stood by silently, her dark cloak brushing my face. I thought of my daughter beneath the wide black sky of Olympia, 3000 miles away, asleep in her teepee with only a veneer of canvas between her and the somberness outside.

I counted the hours before she would wake to a new day of harvesting tomatoes and potatoes, secure in the risen sun of the Western sky.