The Porch Light

I stepped out of my friend Sue’s car and glared at my pitch-black front steps. I’d forgotten to put on the porch light. After spending a long day at the hospital with my seriously ill husband, I couldn’t bear coming home alone to a dark house.

I don’t know why everything seems worse when it gets dark. The shadows, the stillness. I’d startle at sudden noises outside my window and never got a good night’s sleep. I was grateful when Sue offered to walk me inside. She stepped into the hall and flicked on the lights.

“Thanks for the ride,” I said, expecting her to leave. But instead, she circled through the living room and into the kitchen, patrolling like a military dog. She made her way upstairs and even pushed aside the shower curtain with a broad sweep. She got down on her knees to look under the bed. I laughed so hard, it felt good.

“Okay,” she said, “everything’s safe.” As she walked out the door, she added, “And don’t forget who’s looking over you. He’ll help you feel well-rested for tomorrow.”

That night as I sat in the living room, light shined in. It was late, but I was not alone.