The Ghosts of Midnight
I walk across the loose tile of the kitchen floor close to the counter as I am getting something to drink when I hear the familiar soft mewing of one of the cats. It takes me a moment as I look in the direction of the sound to remember which cat—it was Midnight's voice—and then to remember he had died last year. That can’t be right, it simply can’t be him, and I am overwhelmed by the emotion of the memory: I was with him when he died, alone with him, saw his last gasping breaths and the shuddered jerks and rattles; I had experienced death before, of course, but never so close; I had never seen an animal die before my own eyes—please don’t remember that! But I stop to reassess what’s happened here just now in the kitchen. Ah, here’s a simple explanation! No mystery. No, it was only the sound of the zipper on my hoodie scrapping against the countertop as I walked. Yes, it was only that sound—but for a moment I could have sworn… It was so striking in its similarity, for all the world so much like him. His voice was quiet yet distinctive, not to be mistaken for another nor anything. Yet… Looking over at the blue digital numbers of the clock on the stove, it’s almost midnight. Almost. Midnight is the appointed hour, though I never know the date in advance; no, I never know when until the time is upon me. Soon we shall see if tonight will receive a visitor. They are never early and they are never late. Only a few minutes are left now. Maybe there’s always something like this presaging a visit, but I can’t remember now, and I drift off into an empty focus trying to.
They do not announce themself before they arrive; in truth, there is need for neither a knock at the door nor a ring of the doorbell, for there is no need for the door at all; oh how I would let them in if they asked, but no, suddenly—yet it seems as though the moment has been eternal and unchanging—there they are, this presence in human form, neither young nor old, familiar nor strange. Now here they are in the other room, paying me no mind as if this is their home and not mine, but they will only be a minute—a single solitary minute and then they are gone to return or not whichever midnight to come they please. I only have this minute with them but I am reticent to say something, to begin, or attempt to begin a conversation. What did I say the last time? I don't think they would appreciate if I repeated myself and I would ruin the opportunity for this most precious connection.
—You're not going to say anything to me?
—Oh! No, I intend to, but, well, I am trying to think of something worth saying. I don't want to waste the time.
—Say whatever you wish, whatever you like. It hardly makes a difference how the time is spent.
—Well, I only wish not to repeat myself. There's so little time.
—You will whether you wish it or not, though.
—I will repeat myself?
—Yes, that's in the nature of the game.
Already I am unsure of what they mean and I try to hide my annoyance at that fact, though it has been an inevitable recurrence in these visitations.
—What game do you mean?
—You are thinking about something else, aren't you? You can tell me, I don't mind.
—No, I am only thinking of you.
—It does't matter, you know that, surely above all things, you know that?
—It doesn't matter whether I'm thinking of something else?
—No. Whether you're thinking of me, only or otherwise.
—But I am. I am only thinking of m—I mean, of you.
I catch myself at the end, a Freudian slip? An indication of some greater vanity on my part? Or was it a simple confusion of words, a repetition of their phrasing, perhaps? I tell myself it meant nothing, that it means nothing, and that I mustn't think about it, least of all now, when it can only serve as a distraction from this sacred conjunction.
—There is no difference. You know nothing of me, and you know nothing of yourself, either. Besides, you are repeating yourself.
—I don't think so. We can't have talked about this before, can we? I don't think so.
Time is running out and there has been a souring of the mood between us in these final seconds, or at least of mine; no, they are too inscrutable to ascertain a mood, so I can only navigate by guess and fear. I am overcome with the utmost desire to repair things, to end on a positive note, and a gnawing trepidation at the consequences of failing to do so. My desperation pours out into words.
—But no, please, let's not end things this way. I can't, I can't.
—Oh, that doesn't matter either! Be not afraid. It has neither beginning nor end and it goes as it goes.
I don't understand.
12:01 AM. The middle of the night but no longer precisely midnight. I am alone in the kitchen. A cat is asleep on a chair in the other room, the chair where the departed Midnight once often slept. Left with those final words and the unsettled sense which always emanates from these expected but unexpected visits, I am alone in the kitchen. I will try to make sense and find a meaning in what has happened here tonight and to prepare for the next visit, whenever it should come to pass. If ever it should come to pass: neither beginning nor end and it goes as it goes. So again I walk across the cracked tile of the kitchen floor to get something to drink, as I had been doing at the beginning before everything.