Lightning
When the lightning came, it lit up the whole of the night. Not just the sky. In that instant, it was daylight. I got kind of disoriented like the way a pilot must when the horizon is no longer the horizon and when the instruments are more accurate than eyesight. I’m not a pilot, but that’s what I hear. And that lightning, it really did disorient me. It was like time changed gears. Like the rules were all new. Like I had a chance.
I used to watch westerns all the time, and there was always—I mean always— a “last chance” something: last chance stagecoach, last chance saloon, last chance watering hole. You name it, there’s a last chance for everything.
Lightning happens in an instant, and so does chance, you know? I mean, we spend our lives looking for that lucky break—that moment when the tables turn, the eyes open, the timing is just right. That’s kind of how that lightning bolt felt to me—an instant daylight in the middle of night. So what if I was disoriented? So what if it was all illusion?
It was like my last chance. I could feel the electricity of it. The pulse. The sky. The ground. The air. My lungs. I was ready to saddle that horse, swing my leg over, and gallop into the sunset.
It’s something. It really is—when the horizon shifts, and the earth that was round is flat just long enough to make you believe you can ride to the edge and take some leap like you’ve never taken before. And in that instant—in that leap—the whole night shines.
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