Keep the Porch Light Burning

It was coming up on midnight when I made the final dog run. The night was still warm, clear and quiet with a half moon high in the sky. I locked the door behind me, stepped through the porch gate and latched it, and was about to cross the lawn when I noticed the man innocently walking down the street. He was tall and thin and not young, wearing shirt sleeves and jeans, and doing absolutely nothing wrong or threatening or even suspicious. The sudden and wholly unexpected stab of fear that went from my belly to my ankles caught me completely off guard and all rational thought deserted me. I ran for my car, slammed the door so hard it rattled and jabbed savagely at the door lock with one hand and the ignition with the other. By the time I realized that the innocent passerby had barely given me a glance, I'd fought off the panic and was feeling totally disgusted with myself.

I accept that my city has become a dangerous place to be. I understand criminals care nothing about time of day or zip codes, fences or guard dogs or even the risk of getting shot. I get that we're not protected anywhere anymore. I've gotten somewhat used to scanning crowds, paying more attention to my surroundings and taking more than the usual precautions. I don't open my door to strangers, I stay in more after dark, I watch where and when I drive. And all it gets me is an unreasonable panic attack over a stranger minding his own business on a dark street. I suspect I'd never have given him a thought as little as five years ago.

I get home and lock the door behind me, check the windows just to be sure, flick on both the front and back porch lights and settle in with the dogs. I tell myself things will look better in the morning but a part of me wonders if anything will ever be the same again.