Afraid

July 2006
Afraid

I stand with my chin resting on the metal bar of the gate, searching the empty yards of my neighborhood from the safety of my chain link enclosed backyard. Our house sits at the bottom of the horseshoe shaped road, giving me a fair view of all the yards, all the way to the top of the street.

I am not quite sure where the dog lives, and I have only seen him once. But I believe my brother when he tells the stories of seeing the boxer with a dead cat in his mouth, and one time, of running from the dog, climbing a tree to get away from the hungry jaws.

So I stand with my hand on the latch, a little girl in brown corduroy pants and brown shoes, with waves of fear consuming her at the thought of leaving the security of the yard, with no one to protect her if she ventures out.

Now my hand is on a different latch. Now the enclosure is a gilded cage. Now a fierce dog has become a traitorous adversary. Dread is relentless as I contemplate leaving my enclosure.

It’s like standing on a glacier in a fierce winter storm, knowing deep chasms are hidden under the frozen snow and each step must be tested, measured, to assure there is no hidden abyss as I move forward. I try to envision myself safe on the other side, where the glacier meets the smooth surface of the mountain, where there is hope of soft powder, where I can snap on my skis and glide home.

Home where it is safe, home where it is warm, home where I want to be more than anything.