I didn’t really know where to begin.
I thought that maybe if I just went on a walk, I would come back to our house twenty minutes later and have a better grasp on some of the things that had been on my mind. Instead, while walking, I got distracted by the realization that lighting is everything. It’s all about the light that fills up my room when the sun is rising, making our blonde wood floors smile and the walls dance, transforming my sheer white curtains into wedding veils rippling away in the wind. There’s the pale and fading after-afternoon light that seeps through the two tiny windows in our bathroom so that taking a shower without the lights on becomes an ethereal experience that drowns me in a storm of honest, grey-blue sadness. In the evening there is a gentle light downstairs that drapes the faces of the people we love, complementing the glow of their bodies and spirits subtly, thoughtfully, all the while careful not to reveal too much. And outside, there’s the light inside of the other homes, outlining the profile of a young child’s pure face or articulating the unspoken softness that radiates from his mother’s wide, round hips.
I glanced at my watch. Eleven minutes had passed. I didn’t have a better grasp on anything, but at least I knew where to begin.
I walked back to our house and took a shower without the lights on, ate dinner silently and alone underneath light that made me wish that anyone else was with me, and looked forward to the white hot glorification of my room in the early morning.