I hate the dark. And if I’m being really honest with you...every time the light above our heads flickers, my breath catches like a child captures bubbles in their chubby hands. It is silly- this fear of mine- but I cannot let it loose. Using his comforting palm on my shoulder, Shadrach reminds me to let air flow into and out of my lungs again. So I do. 

The electricity has never been reliable. Once a week, it fails completely and there is no hope of light to guide us in the night. It reminds me of living in my grandmother’s home. Wishing for daylight. On the nights when our electricity is gone, Shadrach lays the boys down to sleep and tells them stories. On those nights, his voice is a gentle breeze, cutting through the darkness. His stories are intended for Reuel and Clyde but Ivan and I -curled around each other- take as much comfort from my husband’s quiet voice as my older sons do. I try to believe that the dark can be comforting. Safe. But to me, the dark will always mean what is unknown. 

Chasing away the dark