The Lightning Hour

At three in the morning, when even the cat has abandoned her post by the fireplace, I move through the house like something from one of my grandson's movies—a zombie, he calls them, though I prefer to think of myself as a night-blooming flower, fully awake only when the world sleeps.

The lightning storm outside has been dancing for hours. Each flash illuminates the hallway, briefly bringing to life the photographs on the wall. There's my father, standing beside Old Bessie—that ornery bull who chased the mailman three times before Daddy learned to lock the gate properly. Bull-headed, the neighbors said, though I think the bull had more sense than most of us. He knew what he wanted and where he was going, which is more than I could say at seventy-three.

I wander into the kitchen, where a bowl of papaya sits on the counter. My daughter brought them from the market, insisting they're good for my digestion. At this age, you learn that children reverse roles naturally—they become the caretakers, and you become the one who's gently steered toward healthier choices, just as you once steered them away from candy before dinner. The papaya's sweet flesh reminds me of that trip to Hawaii, forty years ago, when your grandfather and I sat on the beach watching storms roll in across the Pacific. We held hands then as we hold memories now—some precious, some painful, all part of the tapestry we've woven together.

Another flash of lightning, closer this time, and the house shudders slightly. I remember how my grandmother used to say lightning was God's camera, capturing moments we'd otherwise forget. Perhaps she was right. These nocturnal wanderings, these midnight conversations with ghosts and photographs—they're not the ravings of a lonely old woman but rather the necessary work of gathering one's harvest.

The papaya is sweet against my tongue, the storm is beautiful beyond the window, and somewhere in this house, my husband sleeps peacefully, just as he has for fifty-two years. The zombie walks back to bed, grateful for these stolen hours, for the lightning that illuminates what matters most, for the stubborn lessons of that long-ago bull, and for the sweet taste of a life fully lived.