after dark
this week i stayed up. the house i know so well by day turned into somewhere else once the lights went out, and every room had something in it that wasn't quite what it was. i didn't sleep much. i don't think the house did either.
the coat

it hangs by the door all day and nobody looks at it twice. but at night it gets taller somehow, and stiller, the way a person goes still when they don't want to be noticed. i told myself what it was. i stayed facing it anyway.
the stairs

the stairs have no backs to them, just dark between each step. going up felt like walking away from something, and going down felt like walking toward it. so i stopped in the middle and listened to the house settle around me.
the television

everyone else had gone to bed and the stations had all gone home. what was left was a soft grey hiss and a light that made the whole room look underwater. i stood in it a long time, half expecting it to say something.
the mirror

the silver behind the glass is wearing away in little dark islands, like the mirror has been forgetting things for years. i only meant to glance. i'm still not sure the one looking back was entirely me.
the window

with one lamp on, all that glass turns into a stage. i could see myself, and the room behind me, and almost nothing of the garden at all. i kept looking out, because whatever was out there could certainly see in.
morning

it came slowly, grey before it was anything else, mist lifting off the oaks one tree at a time. the coat went back to being a coat. the stairs were just stairs. i watched every shape get its name back, and then, finally, i was tired.

