The winter sun is so orange. It seems so much brighter than the sun in June and yet I can look at it with my eyes wide open. There's frost on the cars going past my window and the birds that haven't already gone south are taunting the kitten through the glass. I have a peaceful song playing and my coffee is freshly brewed. These moments are so gently treasured. I sink into them without guilt and relish that I'm alone with myself.
Landslide starts to play and suddenly mom is with me too. I can smell her hair and see her smile. I can hear her voice with mine as I sing along with Stevie. I let the emotion of the words flow over me and I don't mind when my eyes swell a bit with tears.
The sun is more yellow now but still not a summer sun. I can see the cold outside in the breath from passersby, the exhaust from cars, the slow melt of frozen dew.
Now as the sun starts to make its way across the keyboard the rays become sharp. They pierce through the blinds and into my eyes. I wince against them, a hand to my forehead shielding.
Later the sun rides high in the sky, reminding me the day is going to go on. I feel it's warmth through the window, know it's deceiving. I don't want to go outside. I don't want to see the light. I want to do nothing I need to do.
The sun will come out tomorrow.
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