Eve

A frail knock on my screen door on a breezy midsummer night, one so soft that it was almost inaudible.
In the darkness, illuminated by a bright porch light, is an outline so familiar that it causes me to gasp.
My body unexpectedly tightens, my mind suddenly swirls, and my heart trembles uncontrollably.
I inch down my darkened hallway, praying it’s someone else awaiting me, but knowing it is not.
Seconds to process. Seconds to act. What should I do? What should I say?

I emerge from the dim foyer, fearful to look up, aware that my deepest fear will prove true.
As our eyes connect, I remain visibly rigid, but internally, I crumble and revert to a younger, vulnerable version of myself.
Her trembling hands push towards the screen’s western red cedar frame, not expecting the door to be latched shut.
A look at the latched door and then back towards me. A quivering voice asks, “Can I come in? Please?”
Seconds to process. Seconds to act. What should I do? What should I say?

Fleshy, red cheeks and snot-covered sleeves suggest her distraught began long before my front steps.
Unexpected gusts of air cause the door’s single hook to rattle, the door flailing a quarter inch each time.
Heavy, silent sobs try to subside as she struggles to find the words, “I need your help…I really, really need your help.”
Helplessly unaware, I alternate glances between the lock and her look, her look and the lock. 
Seconds to process. Seconds to act. What should I do? What should I say?