david

Still dark. Winding up the empty mountain road, fresh snow dusts the asphalt. No cars. Quiet.

David’s house glows warmly with holiday lights. The street is just one block long but has two lanes, separated by a tree-lined median. Thick old trees twist into the night. Their branches, brightened by sleeves of snow, reach across the street toward one another. 

I can’t see David clearly as he shuffles out of his house, but in the glow of his phone, he appears to be young, maybe twenty. He slides into the back seat and mumbles a good morning without looking up from his phone.

I pull away from the curb and begin the climb out of his neighborhood. Glancing in the rearview mirror, I see David now has closed his eyes; phone illuminated in his lap like a night light. 

Okay, David, rest. And I, too, will pull quietly into myself, rolling silently through the darkness before dawn.

As we crest the ridge above the valley, a prick of golden light on the horizon far below pierces the gliding night. Rapidly, it grows; the blanket of snow on the valley turns soft pink, then orange. Suddenly, steeples appear, silhouetted, poking out of the valley floor toward the dome of pale blue above. Golden shafts glance off little slanted roofs, haloing homes that seem to huddle down, protecting their people.

We are in this world, sleeping David and I, in this dawn moment. In this silent unfolding, we are alone together under the opening sky.

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