Night and Day

The evening of December 25th was overcast and cold, with the rain of a wet Texas winter pounding down with a vengeance; the roof of the ramshackle old farmhouse had given up long ago and dozens of tiny drips of water filled the room.  The distinctive sound of the rain hitting and filling the numerous metal buckets, which were scattered around, sounded like an odd almost mournful symphony. 

She began to gather up the clothes that laid scattered everywhere in the room.  It seemed to her that the clothes tended to multiply and arrange themselves in odd and disconcerting ways.  She laughed at her own bizarre thoughts and realized she needed to get out more.  This old house had become her life—at once her protective sanctuary and restrictive prison.   Time seemed to lose any tangible sense when she was here.  It was so strange—when she was at work the clock moved with a predictable pattern.  But, once she stepped over that threshold time became something obtuse, minutes were hours and days could be completely lost. 

The house was old, very old and had quite a life of its own.  In fact there were places that she would not go in the house—the feelings were still too raw and the energy too masculine.  But much of the house was safe and warm and very reminiscent of some memory that she never had—but that she could almost believe could be hers if she did not think about it too hard.  The house had deeply embraced the 1940’s.  It was in the way the big band music sounded when it bounced off the walls, in the way the light struck the ancient wallpaper, and in the way that she felt—like she should be waiting for a long lost love to come home from war in the wee hours of the morning. 

At night the dreams took her over.  Sad and wistful dreams filled with longing, a longing which was not hers, but felt as if it was.  It was like watching an old movie but more real.  Every night she would dream of standing at the far window in a flowered dress; in the exact spot where the afternoon sun filters through the stained glass in the transom.  The  dream phonograph played Night and Day by Cole Porter over and over in some unreal timeless loop.  The longing was so intense-- and though she knew it was not her own reality,  she could not help but be overwhelmed with the sheer force of the feeling this dream woman was having for her lost love.

Up until December 25th, the dream would play out the same.  Every night the music, the longing, the sense of complete an overwhelming love.  

But this night,  with the storm hitting the house so hard she had this feeling something had shifted in the house and was afraid to go to sleep.  At 11:13pm a loud crack and a bolt of lightening struck the old farmhouse.  The power went out and she stood alone with only her cat and the ghosts of the house for company. 

The storm raged outside and soon she crawled into bed and pulled the covers high over her head.  Fighting sleep as long as she could…but finally it took her. She was once again back in the same old farmhouse-- just decades before. 

But there was no music on this night. 

By the front door sat two suitcases and a woman’s hat with a small purple flower.   She found herself standing once again at the window,  her back so straight and her arms at her sides, in complete silence. On the floor a white envelope open and discarded, she was afraid to look at the letter—already knowing it was not good news.  She knew that the lover of the dream had died.  There were no tears just a deafening and icy silence. 

When she awoke she knew that there would be no more dreams of the woman in the flowered dress.  No more Night and Day playing over and over.  The dream woman was gone from the house.  She knew that her own time in the house was also over.  The house that had called to her from hundreds of miles away and that had been her refuge and hiding place was now just a house. She also knew that her own old love was dead as well.  Though she had not seen him in several years, it did not matter.  She knew in her heart he was dead.  It only took hours and google to read his obituary.  He was killed in Afghanistan in a car bombing on that very Christmas Day--he had been there on a tour of duty--called up on inactive reserves... he was only 40 (she never had known he had gone back in). 

Wandering the house that morning it felt empty and for the first time she felt alone.  It was time to go once again...

After she left the house she did some research on the previous owners…the woman's name was Virginia and she had lost her high school sweetheart and new husband during World War II, he had been killed after the airborne landing at Arnhem.  His unit was tasked out with capturing the bridge at Arnhem and holding it—he died before sunrise the first night.