a visitor
fear, light, connection
Two nights ago, I noticed that the sensor light at the back of the house was on. Sometimes it does that - a possum shuffles by, or a moth flutters past. But the light stayed on. For almost an hour (I kept checking). I started to worry there was a person there. What if there was? What would I do? I moved through the house, winding each of the windows closed. Not that a closed window would save me.
So I imagined the person broke a window. What then? Surely my dog would sense them before me, but I didn’t want her to. She’s a golden retriever. She’d run to them and bark. But then what? She’d wag her tail, and say hello. Ssh, the intruder might say, soothing her with pats. She’d flip onto her back, exposing her belly. The intruder would rub her belly because only a monster wouldn’t, and she’d be satisfied. She’d leave then, and lead them straight to me. Look, mum. A visitor.
What do you want? I’d say.
And then what? Then what?
*
I used to have nightmares about intruders. It was always a man, or men, breaking in during the night. They got to my parents first, and I knew I was alone. I hid in a cupboard, listening for their footsteps. I covered my mouth with my hands and made myself small. Then I took my chance to run. I ran from neighbour to neighbour, banging on doors, crying for help, but the streets were empty and no one answered. I heard the man, or men, coming after me. I ran but I knew I would never be fast enough. Just before they caught me, I woke up in a sweat.
*
So on this night, I was alone, and the sensor light was on. I looked outside and still saw nothing, but I couldn’t sleep with the light brightening the backyard and the edges of my curtain. I couldn’t sleep not knowing what was there; knowing something must be there.
Maybe the light is broken, I tried to soothe myself. I tried to turn it off manually, but the switch didn’t work.
Eventually, I fell asleep and had no dreams that I remember.
The next day, my neighbour - an older Iranian woman who always has impeccable make-up and hair even when she’s just at home - called me from over the fence.
“Amy, Amy,” she called, jogging from her front garden to mine. “Did you see the fox?”
Suddenly it all made sense.
I told her about the sensor light and she nodded with certainty.
“It was him,” she said. “I know it!”
She told me she’d heard the cries of a possum just before the fox killed and ate it during the night.
“I couldn’t bear it,” she said, raising her manicured hands to her face and closing her eyes. “The poor thing.”
But it’s life, I wanted to tell her. I was feeling so much better about having a fox around, and not a human potential intruder. I told her I’d been a bit scared that night, alone and wondering.
“If you ever feel that, just call me,” she said. “I’ll come. If you scream, we will hear you.”
It means a lot to be able to tell someone your fears.
It means a lot for someone to hear them.
Since that conversation, I’ve been thinking about the fox. Not on purpose. But it’s like he’s lurking in the shadows of my mind, just like he’s lurking in the shadows of our street. I’ll be preparing for friends to come over, and think of him. I’ll be vacuuming, and think of him. I’ll walk my dog, read in the backyard, go for a run, and think of him.
I don’t know what it means, or if it has to mean anything. But I wanted to tell you about him. In my mind, he looks at me and we know each other. It means something to know each other without any obligations, without belonging to each other in any way.
I wanted to tell you about him because he was here.
Maybe he still is.
And I’m not afraid.
Some news:
The Yard Sale at Story House is officially launched! It was a beautiful launch party and I’m so grateful to all who came and wished they could have been there. It was extra special holding in my favourite cafe, where I first wrote the story.
I’m co-hosting a Found Poetry & Connection workshop next weekend. Tickets are sold out, but we hope to run more!
Woafie Writers Gatherings have been going for three weeks now. It is still new but we are finding our rhythm, and each session has been so good for my soul. Spaces are still available for more writers to join us. No experience is necessary, just a desire and curiosity to write :)
Thank you for reading. I wish you a wonderful week ahead 💜
Amy
Beautiful writing! I’ve had similar experiences, mostly with possums turning my front light on, and the paranoia that ensues. Great to see that neighbourly love as well — more of that in this world would be lovely.