Walking in the Dark
Because my mother is American and my father is Australian, I spend each school year in the States with my mom and each summer in Australia with my dad, almost living with Sharon's family, my South African neighbors. On my last night in Australia, Sharon steered the boat through the moorings as I draped myself over her knees, cocooned in her embrace. I huddled against her, listening to the motor churn loudly and unevenly, thinking that if I moved I might get cold, and staring at the groceries in the bottom of the boat. Our silence was comfortable. When I finally raised my head and looked up, I saw the yellow rectangles of windows and the blurred outline of the next moored yacht we had to dodge. When we reached the public wharf, I stepped off with the groceries and looked up at the crescent moon that had tipped over and slid into a Cheshire cat's smile. I helped Sharon carry the groceries to her house, refusing the flashlight she offered me as I left. No streetlights lit Wirringulla Avenue, a one–lane dirt track. I walked home in the dark.
If I can walk in the dark, I know where I am. It is the ultimate test of belonging. I walked quickly down my neighbor's uneven stairs, hitting each riser with my heel before I stepped, secure in the rhythm of my feet. When I reached the road, floodlights trained on a neighbor's front steps spilled over the orange clay of the path, outlining each chipped, half–submerged stone. Anyone could walk safely. As the floodlights faded, the darkness thinned to shades of grey, and the night regained its beauty. Soon the sky silhouetted the tall, closely spaced trees that edged the path. The dark frond of a cabbage tree palm slanted towards me. Tomorrow it would gleam like a green–rayed sun. I fixed the image in my memory. The world seemed large, uncluttered, and very beautiful. It was so quiet that my thoughts surrounded me in a bubble of sound. Crash! I froze. I faced the sound, my eyes fixed on impenetrable blackness. The wallaby jumped, as skittish and ungraceful as a small kangaroo. It hurtled towards me, glimpsing me in midair in time to swing its heavy tail and change its flight–path to miss me. Wind brushed the left side of my face. It landed behind me and I waited as it crashed away through the dead ferns.
Soon I would return to my life in the U.S. In the airport lobby, I would glimpse my mom reading, the scene sharp and bright. My life in Australia would become strange as it receded and I would miss my dad and neighbors. I would talk to Sharon on the phone, nothing left to say, unwilling to hang up. As I walked down the hill, my thoughts seeped into the quiet. The sky was a dark grey slash in front of me, bracketed by trees. I could not see my feet. From the sky, I guessed where the path lay. I trusted the dark.
