To the sunray that lit up a tiny corner at my grandparents’ house in 1982
Do you remember me? I saw you as a child, and you saw me, too. You were caught between the hedge at the edge of the garden and the fence in front of the house.
Dust from the ground rose to play with you. Dark-green leaves turned golden-white. The wind, briefly, held its breath.
You were magnificent.
I still see you. And I wonder why, of all the lights that crossed my way, I think of you.
There was the morning sun that made our crumpled bed sheets glow when I turned thirty. There was the light that shone so grey, so soft, on my dead mother’s face. There was the summer dusk that touched a southern sea and told of heroes old.
And you? There was just you, and me, and this brief moment. A photograph I never took.
I am the child that sees you still, and you are part of all the lights that fill my life, and in the darkness of my nights, I think of you.
*creative non-fiction, work in progress