imperfect prose on thursdays: seeking light

sometimes it’s all we have.

that slide of the cloth curtain, that peek into the horizon and the sigh for the gold, blue and violet. and then, the miracle of caedmon red splashing righteous and

we sing for the light holds us through the dark of any day.

i am a sun-seeker. i find God in the sky unfolding and when he isn’t there
it’s hard to turn from the curtain.
sometimes i just hold the fold of cloth and pray into it, soft until he appears

and i think of the pink flower i gave my sister, the plastic one that dances when rays touch petal

i think of my mum, of tucking her into afghan by morning’s window and her looking like an angel and me wishing she could fly away to heaven where she’d feel light forever

i think of my grandmother, shrunken into her own silhouette, oxygen tank, a twig by her hospital glass staring out into the gardens and leaves sprouting making her look so young right before she died

“how do you stay so positive all the time?” i ask my husband
“it’s easy to be happy when you look at our son,” he replies

yes, i whisper. this, the gift of God curled up on our living room floor, spilling muffin crumbs and laughing at his own baby jokes, this bundle of light, this flesh-roll of horizon color

keeps me alive

spill light here, dear artist-friends. light, in all of its forms. don’t be afraid to shine.

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