Essay --

I’ve heard it said that even the greatest of men are wise enough to fear the dark; whether that fear is rational or not, I’m not sure I’m worthy to judge. But until you’ve felt the dark and experienced the cold depths of it enveloping your soul, I’m not really sure you truly know what it is to fear. Manhattan, New York, 1977. The sweltering July summer left the dense city feeling sluggish and apathetic. I’d spent the day switching between my new television set and my open window (of course our a/c would break in the hottest month of the year), and I planned on walking a few blocks over to my friend’s house so I could spend the night in her wonderful air conditioned home. My mom was at work, probably wouldn’t be back until dawn, and so I was alone when dusk came, the sky still aglow from the bright lights of the city and the last remnants of daylight. I grabbed my duffel bag and headed out, eager to get to Jenny’s and relax in the cool air. I had just stepped into the hallway outside the apartment when it happened; there was a sort of jolt in the air. Suddenly, a buzzing noise could be heard, growing louder each passing second, as if someone was turning up the bass on an exponentially-loud amplifier. As the sound grew in decibels, the lights in the hallway flickered and became brighter, brighter, brighter, so bright I had to wince to look up at them. I swung open the door to the apartment to find all the lights on full blast, shining so brightly my skin began to burn. Slamming the door shut, I slid 2 down to the floor in the hallway and shut my eyes tight, too frightened to leave my apartment building. I was scared, sure, but soon I would find out what real fear feels like. A few minutes passed when, finally, the glare behind m... ...e, when I saw a single figure hunched over on the subway bench. Every instinct in my mind told me not to approach the shade before me. I pictured ghosts and spirits around it, waiting to prey on me, the Good Samaritan, very, very, far from Kansas. But I knew that I had to reach out and touch her, my mother had taught me that much. At their darkest hour, the wisest of men are no different than us, the same battery acid pumps through their veins, and the same fear cripples them. What we all feel together remains unanimous. At that moment, when I reached out to that sobbing woman, I saw my mother, and that dark subway tunnel was brighter than any human eye could have observed. There we sat together, until the lights shuttered their return, holding one another in utter darkness, not saying a word or identifying each other, but hearing and seeing the love between us.