A Still Small Voice Continues

(A little bit of peace is restored but . . . let's read on)


Shuffling through the kitchen door she found dinner dishes screaming with an unclean vengeance. The floor begged for a mopping. Who’s to know? The tiles are fading anyhow. Nonetheless, she picked up the mop and began to clean. The small of her back tensed up and she wondered if all those perfect wives with their wonderful husbands and well-behaved children were cleaning house at nine in the evening.

When the clock struck midnight she granted herself much needed sleep. But sleep evaded her as all the worries of her future, and those of her sons’, loomed heavy on her heart. The emotions flowed with silent tears and flooded her complete being. If only she could escape. She knew, of course, there was none.

Then, in the darkness of the early morning, a voice whispered.

“Shay.”

Was she hearing things?

“Shay.”

Her curiosity grew stronger than her fear, though fear she had. She had lost that feeling of safety ever since her husband left and found it necessary to sleep with a night light. Nonetheless, Shay followed the voice through the hallway. Something was different. This is not my hallway—much too dark. She groped around for the light switch, but couldn’t find it.

“Focus.” She spoke out loud and struggled forward.

Unsuccessfully, Shay tried to adjust to the darkness. She stretched out her arms. Suddenly her home seemed unfamiliar terrain. But before she could turn back the whisper came again.

“Shay, return to me.”

“Who are you?” she said though it was quite conceivable she knew who it was. Never mind, she thought. Don’t answer that.

To be continued still . . .