A week after loosing power, darkness had become so familiar that it was difficult to imagine what it had been like to walk into a lit room. We had learned to trust our ears and noses, when we had to, better than our eyes, and what was once seen as extreme darkness was now a comfortable, and soothing everyday environment. An environment for love, said the hopeful, and perhaps they were correct. Darkness took over the town in many ways, and brought people together, as you learn to trust in someone a little more if you can’t see them.
What I remember of those days, however, is not only not having power, or the long nights walking in the dark forest, but instead what I remember is learning that light can come into your life in many ways, some more unexpected than you may think. Perhaps the light, my own light, had left before we lost power and, as I learned one of those nights, it came back with you.
It is interesting how the memories of certain objects remain with us, because they are attached to moments that affect our lives forever. I remember the stool that you were sitting on, as I saw you in the darkness and instantly the room became brighter. I remember the folding ebonized bases, and the zebra top of the stool where you sat, unaware of how bright you looked, and how much you were changing my world.
Suddenly, I was seeing a new light in the world, a light just for me, a light I wanted to hold onto. Darkness would still be around for a little longer, and we wouldn’t have power for a few more weeks, but everything in my life was already brighter, because there was you. So, when I finally decided to talk to you I had no better idea to ask you about the stool you were sitting on, and you smiled, and the room got even brighter, and you told me the story of your zebra stool, and I could see it better, I could see everything better, because I had your light with me. Darkness had left.