The pale, cold moonlight drifts in through the open window and falls on my bare skin as I wake up with a start. My hands go immediately to my neck as I feel the heart shaped pendant that hangs there from an old silver chain.
“Oh Tom,” I sigh, as a tear slides down my cheek.
I remember it was a knock that woke me up – three short raps on the knocker. But I can’t hear a thing now, other than the content little snores of my son Matt through the walls. Even the breeze that usually rustles through the branches of the old oak is silent today.
“Imagining things again,” I whisper.
I lie down again, and stare at the ceiling. Five years… it has been five long years since I last heard from him. They say he’s dead, that he’ll never return to hold my hand again. If only he had called one last time to say goodbye. I had so much to tell him, so much love left to give him, so many memories left to make with him. If only he had called one last time, so I could have said how much I loved him, and missed him…
I hear the sound of knocking once again and jump up, alert. The bedside clock shows 1:11.
Who can it be at this unearthly hour? The news had reported a burglar in our neighborhood. Could it be him? I had latched every door, shut all the windows downstairs. Maybe he’s trying to trick me to opening the door so he can do his business. Maybe I should call the cops. But if he runs off, they’ll think I’m mad. They already think I’m mad. They won’t come. Even Mrs. McCarthy next door will not think anything if I call for help. I’m alone… all alone in this world, except for Matt. Do I wake him? No. He’s only fourteen. The burglar would just push him aside, maybe even hurt him or hold him hostage. What do I do?
(January 13th, 2013)