The darkness steals them from me one by one. Eyelid by eyelid they droop away into their own heads, and I am left alone. My father is the last to go. He is known for white-knuckled terror times where his voice develops edges, serrations of sound, and he saws into my ear, barking at me to “slow down,” to “watch out,” “to stop.” But the darkness overpowers him too and soon he is breathing slow and quiet. Together they sleep harmonies - squeaks and creaks, elegant flourished sighs, prolonged sleep-moans. I hold the steering wheel as if the dark could claim it from me too. But I am the watchman, the protector of seven heartbeats, and I brandish my vehicle towards the dawn, towards home, towards solace and safety. Suddenly from the darkness comes a light, two large looming eyes traveling towards me. We will collide.
I brace myself. I pray that the seven heartbeats will beat on.
It has fooled me. I pass the looming eyes with a roar, and drive on. The darkness eases up a little, creeping backwards towards its dwelling somewhere far away. I drive and drive and drive.
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