“The dream doesn’t rescue the maiden.”

–Louise Gluck

the beginning always starts with a blindfold
and little curse under the breath.
do not ask to see your death
two hands across my eyes
say.
“witches halloween”

There was a pillar between the door and I; between the end of the brick wall that lined the home and the beginning of the siding. This gave me a final moment of pause to collect myself, remember I’m armed, prepared and a friendly snake in the garden looking for some mice to feed my cat. It is pitch black and the moon is peeking out, lucky for me, it is gray but not completely overcast. Never in my life had I tried to imagine what things would look like in the dark though I had imagined myself deaf and blind crawling around the floor as a child dozens of times. So lucky am I to experience such sensory deprivation in my lifetime and then suddenly I see it; the gargoyle.
It is dead center in the back at the edge of the red fence and the middle of the dead garden which is covered by weeds. I hear nothing from inside the house and don’t move. I wait to see if there are any roving animals that will startle me, a cat that will give me away. I wait to see if anyone opens a door or I hear anything inside. I wait to see if there is something I am missing, haven’t thought about it, haven’t weighed a risk. Then I think of superstitious things.
“Hecate,” I whisper. “Hear me in my head.”
Please allow a safe passage.
When I move, minutes have passed. I have grown colder but I have stealth now. I have run the wrong way in a softball game. I have driven the wrong way down a one way street. All I hear in my head is the New Orleans mystic that said you are a cat, you always land on your feet. As I walk onto the patio, I wait again for a light to turn on. These things are hard to shake. My ally, my dark, my enemy, the dark, my purpose. I tiptoe because I cannot see the branches. My eyes are fixed on the gargoyle. My hand has left my pocket. I do not turn to look in the kitchen window because I can’t see inside anyway. Do not think of the word deserving. My word for the day, the last time I had access to the internet and the leisure to see the headline from dictionary.com, was concinnate. The surprise that I can’t take is that the key is still under the gargoyle and I’m already here.

I’m reticent.

waiting for how it feels
when i watch the forest
engulf you in
pitch black and
arctic and
you drop suddenly
into a hole in the ground.

when i see that we are standing
on a frozen lake
it is too late.

Because I had done this myself, I felt confident I could walk fast enough and straight enough that I didn’t need to use the flashlight. In my back pocket, I had scissors and in the other back pocket, the small flashlight, the police officers had given me. After retrieving the other from the basement, I stood them both side by side to concur that the police were giving out thin, probably easily breakable and cheap flashlights to power us all through this arctic blackout.
“Fine. Look Genevieve,” and I flashed the light several times on the floor next to her.
We could use some enjoyment. I let her play with it for five or so minutes before petting her head and giving her a few of the treats I found tucked behind her bag of cat food.
“We will be ok.”
The backyard had no gate or fence. You could walk straight from the alleyway into the back patio and be facing the back door with no obstruction within two minutes of entering. Because it was pitch black and I didn’t have the hazy glow of light pollution to guide me, it took me five minutes. I stepped carefully. I did not mumble. You could say I tiptoed. I tiptoe often. My father always said I walk on the tips of my feet only.
“You kind of dance everywhere,” and he moved his hands in front of him, sweeping them and stepping on the tops of his feet, mimicking, what I thought, some kind of Frankenstein.
“What are you doing?”
“Dancing!”
He turned in circles and then grabbed me, bringing me into the ballet. The Allman Brothers were on. We began to twirl.
“Come on, kitten, dance with me!”
His smile bared down on me. When I felt the smooth side of the blade press my palm: cool, slick, unthinking and with just an accidental swipe, could pierce me,  I felt comfort. I thought of you.

The day I watched them quarrel, I had been ruminating. Because I had been ruminating, I had been mumbling to myself. Because I had been mumbling to myself, I was laying low. Because I was laying low, I overheard the couple quarrel.
“It is not my fault.”
“It is absolutely your fault. I said…”
She interrupted him, “I said, I didn’t have them, Steven! Jesus Christ, go get the spare. Come on! We have chicken out here that needs to be in the refrigerator!”
They were each carrying two to three bags each, placing them on the stoop and then pausing to yell at each other. I was at the corner. There was a bench and an opening to a very small park, more like a courtyard, and no one else was on the street.Just lifting my haunches, I leaned forward to peek.  I saw him throw his hands up.
“The key is under the gargoyle, Steven!” she sort of hissed it.
“I know where the spare is, Martha, tell everyone!”
He stomped back down the steps and turned to the left of the house, yanked on something and disappear into the wall.  I stood up but kept behind the brick, waiting til I heard the front door open for his scowling wife.
“Ok, Martha, let’s get the chicken inside.”
Cue, I turned the corner and refrained from making any spectacle. No mistake walk. No falling, sighing, humming, leering, jest. No interaction.  Steady gait, strong posture, watched them carry their bags two by two inside. Arrived at the bottom of their stoop to four more plastic bags and a strong urge to help swept over me; to introduce myself, shake hands, offer to carry things.. Look at the mahogany door instead. 456. I am on Mirch St.  I could see inside their house: living room in front, stairs in center and straight back to the kitchen like mine. I could see an island and that the back door was still open. I didn’t hear any dogs or children. No cats ran out. Their keys open the back door. When I heard them come down the stoop for the last four bags, I was already halfway up the block, self consumed again, arriving at no real solutions for the day.
My cheeks were dotted with condensation and my chest hurt. Felt like phlegm was building up. Swallowing, I felt a slight pain but it could be nerves. Don’t cough. Need to get vapor rub. No, no time for lists. The stores are closed. I swallowed the cough and felt my chest burn.
“It’s just the cold,” I whispered.
It was, I guessed 22 degrees and I stood shivering in front of 456 Mirch St at 2:46 am. Hands carefully halfway in each front pocket, I was fingering each knife. It had taken me less than fifteen minutes to get here and no obstacles presented themselves on the way. I avoided Dickinson Square, going towards the shopping center instead but cutting through side streets to get there. If anyone was awake, they were stealth too. If anyone saw me, they were too afraid to ask. Pausing below the mahogany door only to listen for shuffling, movement, secret light, a secret radio, I quickly crept to the white aluminum slatted door. It looked like a barn door. Seeing it as if it was my own, it felt like my own like I had just been transported back to my home. These are stories that help me. This is my home. I have the same door, the same walkway to the backyard, the same back entrance. I felt a weight both bearing down on me and leaving me as I quietly tugged it open with my ungloved, wan shaking hands.

The cops said that they would be patrolling in car and on foot all major shopping centers, intersections and parks. They also said the power will be on in a couple days. They said they don’t need a volunteer team yet because they government is providing sufficient amount of provisions. They said that this is an emergency but not a national crisis. Don’t bring up the riots.
“This town is provincial.”
“You think so?” Brown eyes perked up.
We had been silent the last four houses.
“We are concerned with our neighbors and our cars and our daily business but we aren’t so concerned about worldly matters.”
He scratched his chin.
“You from here?”
“Yes.”
“You kind of have a twaaang to you,” and he elongated it like that.
I shrugged and tried not to look at my phone.
“Anyway,” I continued, “I imagine many people are congregating to keep warm and safe. You said a lot of people evacuated right? How many do you think?”
He laughed but didn’t answer. I sat a moment waiting, hands in lap, trying not to clench my jaw or  act entitled or ask for anything. My posture was straight and I stared straight ahead. I watched him lick his lips and look from side to side and he added,
“I guess a few hundred. Not more than that.’
“Did you go door to door telling everyone the power would be on in a couple days?”
Brown eyes sighed a bit, “ We didn’t say it like a stock message but…”
“What neighborhood did you start with?”
My fingernails dug into my pants again. Brown eyes physically turned to the right and then paused before turning all the way around to face me.
“What do you do for a living?”
“I’m a software programmer.”
“ A software programmer?”
“Yes,”
Relax your hands. I relaxed my hands.
“And has anyone ever told you that you should  have been a lawyer?”
“Yes.”
Letting out a small, yet endearing belly laugh, he turned back to face the windshield. We both listened to the squeak of the wipers the rest of the block.
Pulling on my rain boots, I make the same quick check I do before leaving the door. Stick both hands in my pockets: keys, phone. The phone is off but it makes me feel safe. In an emergency, I will use the switchblade that is taped to my left wrist and covered by coat sleeve. I have a larger knife in my front coat pocket. I have two pairs of leggings under my jeans, two sweatshirts under my coat, a hat, a scarf, a Rose of Jericho shell with the knife for luck and I have a pair of scissors in my back jeans pocket. It is 2:33 am and I open my front door.

I’m counting cans: three, and granules of cat food, seven scoops left. I am calling my dad with no answer and I am putting the phone away. I know what I need to do. I know where to go. I am counting flashlights, both full of batteries and next to the front door. I am counting water: half a gallon of potable water and the tap. I am counting times I saw this coming. I am counting the time the kid told me my teeth were yellow.
“Yeah, it’s even worse being a woman. They call you a hag before your forty if you have yellow teeth,” I say to him.
I smile to the mirror. Night has fallen and the rain is pouring and I am doing it anyway: looking at my yellow teeth, looking at the creases in my forehead, watching my breath form like crystals. I have the journal on my lap. I am counting minutes and I have watched myself, unmoved and creased at the mirror for twenty minutes. Genevieve is behind me on the couch. Her body is moving in soft waves as she sleeps. I am not looking at her but I can feel her I am counting times I knew this would happen and I am counting the space between us, growing. I have nine and a half bags of beans. I have temper, gumption, a general idea of the size of the average foot platoon (sixteen to forty four soldiers, easily matched in my opinion), and a spine that glints in the sun. It is 6:45 pm and I am waiting for something.

I never wanted them around.