Sacred Night

Sacred Night
by Sally Smith

We walk outside like cats,
in anticipation,
on our toes.
We have been waiting for this
all week long.
It is twilight,
and the trees are beginning to look like wax.
The green swims,
patterns of leaves spin,
trade off,
and I feel my body reverberating.

The houses around us look like toys,
monopoly pieces,
plastic
ready to be flicked,
ready to clink when they hit the mountains,
bounce off of a ridge and land upside down.

I laugh, giddy and anxious.
It feels like the end of Christmas Eve,
and I’m just beginning to get a glimpse,
barely on the horizon,
of the day.

The voices of the three boys with me
are trailed by melodic mumbling.
“What are you talking about?”
they ask in wonderment,
wide-eyed, when I try to explain.
And the air ripples and I just hear more.

I touch my face-
it is wet, feels like clay,
smooth and as if I am wiping off my skin,
cleaning off the freckles like make-up,
just by touching it.
Tears leak slowly from all corners of my eyes,
and when they ask why,
I laugh, full and real.
I watch their eyes as the irises recede
and lashes darken.

We follow the path from Emil’s back porch,
him leading us eagerly,
and meander down to the golf course.
Our breath comes out in clouds,
mingles and hangs in the air.
I walk on the edges of my feet,
feel taller, more elastic
as we make our way to the shelter.
We drink from the fountain,
and it sounds like tin,
tastes like school.

We are in the bottom of a grassy bowl,
amongst red flags and sand patches,
houses sitting on the rim,
their lights shining towards us,
shining on us,
brighter than could be possible.

We walk back up the path,
and I run ahead, half-skipping.
I look over my shoulder at them,
slowly walking,
with serenity and cigarettes,
free hands tucked into their jackets.

We go inside, fall onto the couches,
and I watch the florescent ceiling,
pink and blue dancing in spots of the panels.
Brenden and Emil go upstairs to make Kool-Aid,
and we can hear their feet above us.
Chris kisses me slowly
and I think, there is no time
and his lips feel like mandarin oranges,
the kind canned in their own juice.

They come back to the basement,
both hysterical, Emil trying in vain to quiet
Brenden, with four cups
and a bright blue pitcher.
It is three times two sugary,
and chokes us, slides down our throats
like cough syrup, stings our teeth.
We just laugh
and talk about the meaning of life,
huddled under blankets.
“My arms are made of lead,”
Chris says,
and I nod, carefully.

Tired, we start to yawn, stretch;
our eyelids droop as our irises grow.
We fall asleep on the couches,
on the floor, under warm blankets,
and Chris holds my hand
as this sacred night ends.

We wake up the next morning,
walk around in wonderment,
circling the room.
I feel dirty, my skin itching,
and dry, like cotton.
I put on my shoes slowly,
my energy drained.
Chris and I walk out,
and breathe deep,
striving to retain our perspective
from that sacred night.