The moon was kind enough to linger this morning, knowing that I wanted a photograph, and that I needed sufficient ambient light to allow me to fully capture her visage. Sometimes she rises early and shows her face before the sun retreats. I suppose it may just be vanity on the moon’s part, showing off for her brighter sibling, certain I will never pause to photograph Sol. Tomorrow it will be cloudy most likely, and on that day the sun will get the last laugh.
She sits demurely on the step staring off at something. You want to know what but her face isn’t saying, her eyes soft, revealing nothing, her smile enticing, teasing, and out of grasp.
You want to sit with her, see what she looks at, what has captured her thoughts, and there is room on the step for you to join her, but you have never met, you cannot sit next to her, she there half a century ago, and you know she will only be the stuff of dreams one night.
It starts quickly and unexpectedly. You do not know when it will start, why, or what it will bring. There are times when even after it is done, you cannot be certain what it was, what it did, what it meant. Often, though, you forget it before you have time to capture it. It is evanescent, an intense glimmer that can quickly fade to a void, as though it was never there. You wish you could capture it, but you know well that dreams act under their own rules.
Spring has arrived, however begrudgingly, and the young woman pushes the older woman’s wheelchair along the paths of the great park. Neither speaks, but each knows this could be the last time they do this. That shared knowledge paints each flower in a more vibrant hue, each fallen petal is quickly but individually mourned for, its beauty draining back into the soil. The older woman struggles hard to fully capture each view for she knows that it is possible that it will have to last her an eternity.
First Published in Beautiful in the Eye of the Beholder, Sweetycat Press, 2022
It will arrive before you know it, will be gone again before you realize it was even here. This is how it is supposed to be, Even if not how we want it. We will know it had been there and that needs to be enough for we would try and grasp it, try to contain it, hold it. But we are a sieve to water, an hourglass to sand, and satori would have no other way.
“Describe yourself,” she said “that I might capture you if only for this moment a footprint left once you have departed this place and time.” I am, I should think, biologically plausible though straining the bounds of reason once and again. I tend to philosophic androgyny hovering on the fulcrum of paradox. I am the cynic, hurling great brick bats at God, relying on her forgiving nature. I am the imprisoned child who can see through unclouded, smiling eyes beauties and joys just beyond reach. This is the impression my foot will leave, until the first wave erases it from memory.