Every day, of every month, of every year the sky goes dark. There are no exceptions.

And yet the process is mercifully gradual, not like the light switch in the basement. Total illumination blinks to complete blackness in one moment. No acclimation, no gradual weaning. If you don't know where the stairs are, you are stuck. 

There are stars, too to distract us. Tiny points of brightness to make the night less formidable, enchanting even. Counting them, and arranging them into images of bears and hunters makes them more like companions than consolation prizes. Really we want the sun, but stars will do in a pinch. 

Last week John and I realized that our communication had been fading. His mother's death, hobbling on crutches and the frenzy around putting Ben in the hospital left many conversations unspoken, maintenance hugs ungiven. But the auditory darkness had come gradually, and I was used to it. We tried jamming words around the interruptions that are part and parcel of a family of six. Then he did something drastic. He asked me for a date. 

My thoughts objected. I had just gone shopping. There was a basket of carrots and potatoes from the garden. It costs too much. But I switched them off.

"Sure."

The sentences came timidly, the way morning does. We unpacked feelings that had of necessity been told to wait their turn. Except that their turn didn't come. 

After dinner was swallowed and the plates were cleared,  the waitress hinted that they needed the table, and we left. John drove slowly so as not to reenter too quickly. We parked the car in the driveway and stayed outside without telling the kids we were home. We finished up the frayed ends of our good intentions, and apologized for the hurts of the past months. 

I looked up to see the stars were winking. But I didn't mind. Dawn would be back in the morning.