There's a blanket upon this sleeping town as I crawl from bed into my work day blues. A dim light pulses from the alarm clock, reminding me that wise men are still asleep. As I open the front door, cold air greets me, chilling my still stiff bones. I pull my knit cap over my ears, leaving a coffee stained mug to keep watch until I return home.
Young Goodman Brown follows me, whispering in my ear, "Look up to Heaven, and resist the Wicked One" but it's less a caution than a teasing song.¹
A dog howl's in the distance, the sound carries a hollowness, and it removes for the moment, the thoughts of feet crunching the hoary ground. Autumn's chill is giving way to the death of winter's cold and soon the crush of frosted grass will be silenced beneath the falling snow.
As I trace this blind man's path where curtained windows mirror the night, memories rise to crowd my head, and conjure truths I've hid from sight. It's a lonely path I trudge each day, a ritual, a needed chore. Yet as I walk, I silently pray, that I wake to many more.
This is the trek I dread the most, the one I take alone, as daylight breaks upon the town and separates me from home.
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