I Didn't Die Last Night
The current arrived
wearing the face of chance,
a silent predator
slipping beneath the skin of the house,
testing its bones
with invisible fire.
It began
with the breaking of a tree limb,
its weight surrendering to gravity,
falling across the power lines
like an axe
laid against the artery
of the neighborhood.
One broken branch
became a messenger of chaos.
The current played its cruel game—
I dare you.
One heartbeat.
One spark.
One breath
between ordinary living
and an obituary
no one was prepared to write.
The smallest things
fell first.
A lamp surrendered its light.
Faithful appliances
gave up their usefulness,
each one warning us
that something unseen
had awakened.
Our home became
a body in distress,
its veins carrying
more than they could bear.
We were no longer its keepers,
only passengers
inside a vessel
whose pulse had turned against itself.
I pulled plugs
from the walls
as though drawing arrows
from wounded flesh,
then fell to my knees,
where fear
strips pride
to the marrow.
I prayed
for mercy,
for wisdom
that comes too late,
for forgiveness
of ignorance,
of the quiet omissions
that gather unnoticed
until they stand before us
wearing the face of consequence.
Then came
the answering lights.
The electric company arrived
like watchmen
crossing the darkness.
Their hands knew
what ours could not.
Patiently,
they followed the hidden language
of wire and current
until they uncovered
two broken connections—
wounds
left by the fallen limb,
small fractures
capable of becoming
a funeral.
With practiced precision
they mended
what could not be seen,
restoring the pulse
without ceremony,
asking nothing
except room to work.
Five houses
stood together
on the edge
of the same unseen cliff.
Five families
were given
another night.
Sleep would not come.
My mind wandered
through rooms
still echoing
with the sound
of what almost happened.
Silence itself
felt fragile,
like glass
waiting for another crack.
Morning arrived
without applause.
Steam rose
from a cup of tea—
honey,
cinnamon,
and lemon—
a quiet communion
for someone
who had awakened
to another borrowed day.
I walked the house,
counting losses
that money could replace,
making a list
that included
a new pair of kneepads,
because gratitude,
I have learned,
sometimes leaves bruises.
Tonight
the current hums again,
its voice
soft as innocence,
pretending
it has never threatened
to become a flame.
But I know better.
I know
how thin the veil is
between shelter
and ash,
between routine
and ruin,
between this breath
and the last.
So tonight
I will count my blessings
like candles
still burning
after the storm.
And if grace
allows me
another quiet evening,
I will breathe
one long sigh—
not because
danger has vanished,
but because
mercy
arrived first.
…
