I Was Not Alone

When I first heard your voice I was nine years old, curled up on the top layer of a custom-built triple bunk bed, pushed up close to the ceiling, touching the popcorn texture of the wallpaper with the palms of my hands as I tried to jump, feet-first, into sleep.

You said "Hello".

I glanced down into the inky darkness and saw you standing there, your arms crossed over your chest, so serious. You seemed to be lit from underneath, or perhaps within. My eyes were tired. I squinted to try and see you more clearly but you disappeared.

I was left with an imprint of your light when I closed my eyes, like when you look directly at the sun or a lightbulb. I closed my eyes and your light danced, was first the sun and then the Earth and then and then it was me and my sisters, holding hands in the living room on someone's birthday. I feel asleep and dreamt of a sun, brighter than our own, hanging lazily in the sky on a summer afternoon, and my sisters and I swimming in a lake, and you, standing off to the side somewhere, barely visible.

When I awoke you slipped away from me and I forgot you'd ever been there, at least for a while.

When I was eleven I saw you on the television, wearing a suit, debating budget cuts and war in the Middle-East. Shortly before this I learned about World War II at school and as a result renounced God. I was a melodramatic child.

During the interview, you looked directly at me and said, "Hello".

I remembered the night in the inky darkness and your light.
I wondered who you were and what you meant when you said "Hello".
It was a mystery.

When I was fifteen I listened to music about being so alone in the world and what is the point and I dyed my hair black and my parents said Your Behaviour Gives Us Cause for Concern.

You popped up in the middle of one of my favourite CDs, your voice, quietly, saying "Hello". Later that night I closed my eyes and you were there, arms crossed, so serious. I mumbled, half-asleep, "who are you?" and you disappeared.

I thought perhaps I was going insane.

When I turned eighteen, I saw you in a cup of coffee and thought, this is it, the descent into madness. But I found my dreams were waves and not jagged shapes, and that my eyes looked less tired.

And then I saw you wherever I went, walking along in front of me, arms folded, so serious, a red jacket and an old-fashioned hat. You were ageless, you were all ages. You rarely said more than "Hello". I studied Maths and Science and I worked out the statistical probability of life being meaningful in any traditional sense, of the existence of God; it was low.

And yet you followed me.

And you said "Hello".
And I was not alone.