Josh and I take walks in the dark. Two miles every night for at least the ten years since I junked my car for $500 because the engine died. It was my first car and maybe my last car. I love to drive, but night walking suits us. It's quiet. We don't see much. But sometimes, we're surprised. We're in a different part of the neighborhood every time we see the owl.
It swoops down by us. Maybe it confuses Josh's curly hair for a meal. Then it flies back up and lands on a street sign, a telephone pole, a branch. All of it near noiseless. Owl wings have evolved to be silent. One night, I heard the simple scratch of talons gouging bark as the owl launched from a tree and came down within inches of us, wings spread wider than seemed possible. I understand how we made the Mothman now. People in West Virginia saw an owl in the dark. That's all.
I've been missing you and other people lately. But I'm not special. We all miss each other, even if we've started hanging out again. I can already feel how I've changed these past two years. Good and bad. I barely know how to talk anymore. I'm compelled to cross the street when anyone comes my direction. Last night, I went to a movie with the boys and a couple close friends. We were the only people in the theater. It was like watching a movie after the end of the world. I hate to say I loved it.
A friend I hadn't seen since before the pandemic reappeared suddenly. We talked about football, a sport I wouldn't have had words for the last time we saw each other almost three years ago. He was surprised, but then so am I. I have a couple Chiefs shirts. One with Travis Kelce's face printed all over it. He made our only touchdown of the game on Sunday. The part of me that makes a wish whenever the clock reads 12:34 believes he made that touchdown because I wore that shirt. There's a feeling when we win a game. Right there in that sentence, actually. "When we win a game." "We." I only watch, but I still feel responsible, like they couldn't have done it without me. I think there's a power in focusing deeply with thousands of other people, even if it's just on a football game. I think I was supposed to feel that for God and the church when I was a Christian teenager. I never did.
I feel it for the owl, though. Every night, I hope and fear to see its wings. We can't hear it fly, but sometimes Josh and I hear it call. I repeat the sound into my cupped hands. The owl calls back. There it is. That feeling, like I'm almost part of the world again. Like I walk in the dark, but I don't walk alone.