Light.

January: waiting for an Odyssey.

Laying on the floor; the silence moved around me. The floor was cold and the window, open, let the cold winter air in and the shadows on the walls were mosaics. The bed is unmade. The pillow is still imprinted with a hand print. The cold air through the window. The winter sun. A crack in the curtains. Eternity isn’t promised, but with the thin stream of light birthed through the grey winter, tomorrow was promised. I lifted my hand to the light. Laying there I couldn’t quite reach it. I dropped my hand. I watched the shadows on the walls. One was the sea curling up onto the shore. Splashing onto the rocks. The sea foam caught in the breeze, wandering along the sand. The cliffs, taking the birth and death of each wave, before another would come and press its cool body against it. Aphrodite sleeps here. She watches the slow passing of time. We think time passes quickly. We do not stop to notice the shadows forming on the floor- only waiting for them to appear, wondering where they came from. Aphrodite sleeps here. She wakes perfumed in salt and the palm of the sun pressed against her cheek. The sea, the oldest melody. Waves curling up to break on the shore. One shadow was the sea, an eternal orchestra. One minute in the depths of winter, jagged waves rolling over each other, serpentine waves brushing up against those short winter sunsets, where the sky, aflame, was burnt sienna, deep reds, greens and indigo, and for a second the light seemed to be eternal. The coming clouds of the night are still far off. Until the last ray slipped down the neck and the sea, with its serpentine waves hissing up, dulled the flames and the clouds that came were the last of the sun’s funeral pyre. And the next, those gentle, soothing, currents that came in summer. A lullaby. The sea calmed in the warmth of the sun, glowing turquoise, blue, green, slightly misty. The rocks warm under the palm. Imprinting into the skin. Burning the foot. Soft as smoke up the leg. Running cold hands across the warm stomach. Rolling waves that never seemed to break onto the shore, but instead glided, tranquil, luxuriously, they knew they had time to take in those long burning days. Pulling back, pushing back in. They knew they had the time to take. At dawn they turned dusty pink and let the light flow over them. They were calm in the gaze of the sun. The boats out at sea rocked gently. They were the promise of longing and belonging. The sea, the oldest memory. An eternal orchestra. And eternity wasn’t promised, but with the thin stream of light birthed through the grey winter, tomorrow was promised.

Another shadow was a horse galloping through the empty field. The first breath of spring hanging in the air. The wind, still biting, still bitter, flowing in the mane. Free is the wild heart. Tender is the wild heart. The silence encompassing the emptiness. But the sun is more gentle than the day before. The trees are a little greener than before. The ground, unfrozen. Flowers have started to bloom at the edge of the paths and the horse, free is the wild heart, knows too, all shall pass. And another was a flicker of a candle as it watched the dawn outside. It wonders, is this where I came from, is this where I was birthed? Another is a swan gliding on a moonlit lake, dancing around in the trails of its own coming, following the path it once took, chasing after the slow progression of the moon. Another is the loneliness of a city at night. Empty streets filled in a yellow glow. They wait for the sun and they wait for the moon. They are silent. They hold the passing of time. Chairs, once occupied, sit empty, or else folded up and leaning beside doorways. Pockets of missing pieces lie on the paths, etchings of time. Who have these streets held, who will they hold? Eternity isn’t promised, but with the thin stream of light birthed through the grey winter, tomorrow was promised. Another is a bird flying above the trees. Wings stretched out. It doesn’t remember a time it couldn’t fly. Another are the fig leaves bathing in the sun. I stretched my hand out towards the fig. My fingers brush it. I sit up and my palm holds the fruit. It is soft. Sun-warmed. I can hear the sea in the distance. I retract my hand. I lay back down. Eternity isn’t promised. Another is the light through the oak trees. Great rays of liquid amber seeping through the silver flecked leaves. Time stopping for a second; do you see it? One is a fan soothing cool air across the cheek on hot nights, and the skin only grows warmer. One is the palm stretched out in front of you. You cannot read the lines. Another is the home of your childhood holding you into your adulthood.

And another is the silence of a winter morning. I lay on the floor. The shadows dissipate as they appear. I watch the light on the bed covers. . Eternity isn’t promised, but with the thin stream of light birthed through the grey winter, tomorrow was promised.

Beatrice.

cover image from pinterest.