8/4/12

It Was a Dark and Stormy Night
By John Domenichini


It was a dark and stormy night. That's the humor I brought to that night. That was the humor I brought to everything during that phase of our lives, following Steven's death. How distant we had become, blaming each other silently. Drinking heavily, I was numb most of the time, in a dream state, nightmarish. But nightmares were welcome because nightmares weren't real. Steven's death was real.

It was just you and me again. We could have another child. We weren't too old. I didn't dare broach the subject. That would be treating a child like an object, a pet even. I knew what you would say, what you would feel.

I was sarcastic at that time, joking about Steven's death. Not to you. That would have destroyed you, but I was edging ever closer to the brink. All I wanted was to bond with you, but you wouldn’t have it, and I was becoming someone I didn't like. Helpless to stop our destruction, I started pushing toward it, mocking that which was sacred.

I came home sometime after three in the morning. It was a dark and stormy night. I thought that thought, thought it exactly. It was a dark and stormy night. I thought it funny, thought it with cynicism, thought it defensively and offensively toward you, toward your mood, the storm that you brought into our home day after day, night after night. How many more months would you go on like this?

I walked into the house, saw you in the living room. You didn't notice me, didn't acknowledge me, anyway. I stumbled slightly and stopped, waiting for my equilibrium. I watched you as you danced an ancient dance of grief on a lake of sorrow. You seemed to be in on the dark-and-stormy-night metaphor, except you brought truth to it, not sarcasm or cynicism.

You danced on the water, wailed at the lighting and thunder. You cried tears like a raging river. The wind howled through our lonely home. A chill struck me violently, sobering me up, making me feel.

I was alive again, not in a nightmare anymore. I felt, sensed, loved as I took cautious steps toward you, afraid that I couldn't walk on the water as you could, afraid that I wasn’t pure, wasn’t worthy.

You turned to me, your expression filled with empathy for my condition, for my existence.

And you and I were together again.


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John Domenichini is a technical writer in Palo Alto, California. He has submitted work to Bartleby Snopes literary magazine.