I went out late today. It was just getting dark. That time right before the sun sets, when it’s real low and red in the sky. I took the turn off into the fields with every warning, every cautionary tale, ringing in my ears.
Don’t go out after dark.
Women can’t walk alone after dark.
It’s not safe.
What about the woman who was killed while jogging by the canal? The one on her way home from work?
And then the one that plays on a loop. That keeps me awake at night:
He’s still out there and one day he’ll come to punish you, to take your baby. If you’re lucky this time, you’ll survive it with only a fractured shoulder again.
But it was so beautiful tonight. It felt so good to stretch my clipped wings. I could hardly resist. Just 5 minutes. Surely, 5 minutes can’t matter?
And, as I crossed the boundary between the path and the field, the trees erupted into wings. Bats flew out of branches like tiny, black birds with leathery wings and danced above my outstretched arms.
The fields were wreathed in spider-spun white mist, low on the ground. I let it curl around my legs like cold, gossamer silk stockings.
The sky was a painting: pink and red and purple-blue. My face uptilted, the sunset painted rainbows on my skin.
Over the trees, a milky crescent in a shimmering black sea. I jumped to catch the half moon, a half-pumpkin satellite suspended on a string. I held the north star in my hand.
I stood in the middle of the magic and remembered: I wasn’t the one who should be afraid.
