There’s a thick layer of cloud cover between me and the stars. It is almost stiflingly dark. Any light that escapes a streetlamp or stoplight doesn’t make it far from the source before getting lost in the gloom.
Black fog inside my head rises to meet the blackness pressing in against the windsheild. I feel incomprehensibly small and unimportant, and everything that matters seems flat and mechanical and cold.
I pull into the driveway and turn off the headlights.
There are peepers singing in the hallow. I can hear them.
There are is a string of Christmas lights around the roof of the front porch. There’s an austrian pine that’s much too wide for me to reach my arms around, still reaching for the sky.
I know that I’m going to come back and read this, later on. And so I will leave this here, in case there is ever a time when I need to read it:
I love you. I love you, and I’m going to try to take care of you. No matter what happens, whether you like it or not, you will always have me. I will be here when the rest of the world has moved on. For what it’s worth, I wouldn’t want to be anyone else. I would not trade this life for anything. I love you.
I hope it’s a good night.