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| A Woman Turning (M.A. Reilly, 2014) |
I.
There is a certain stillness that comes at noon on late winter days. No birds. No sounds. The neighborhood children are at school and their parents have gone to work. It is on such days, I imagine, that one might slip between the folds and disappear not to be seen again, like an envelope mistakenly slipped beneath the wrong door, never to be found. In such a space it feels as if the entire universe has inhaled. Yet, this is a deceptive pause for nothing waits.
Surely,
the children will come home and their voices will once again rupture the
stillness and their parents will motor-home and the backfire from their cars
and the call of hellos and
children's names across driveways and backyards, as dinner is readied in
kitchens—all of this will work in concert to conceal and to accentuate the
receding voices of those who have come before and who are now leaving.
II.
Some
days I stare at the hot white light centered directly above the roofline of my
house. I stare until I must look away. I close my
eyes and motes of sunlight dance before me, seemingly suspending time. I think of you then. I think, How thin we will grow, and imagine in that moment--you and me facing west.
I am so glad that I stopped by to visit your site. You are an exquisite writer and although not a new blogger, a new blogger to me. I love how you tied your theme of death and love to subtle imagery and description. I also love your use of organization. Thank you. A gift of unexpected words.
ReplyDeleteThank you Deborah for your kind words. I hope you'll come back:)
DeleteThank you. I stopped my morning routine of getting ready for school to read a post. Your's appeared and I'm glad it did. I will think about this throughout the day. I just know it. Beautiful writing is when it moves a soul. Your's here moved mine. Thank you.
ReplyDeleteThanks so much. I hope the words stay with you. That's pleasing, for sure.
DeleteTwo things struck me from your slice: "Slip between the folds" and "motes."
ReplyDeleteViscerally, that phrase doesn't strike me as a bad thing. I like doing that. It is comforting. A chance to reboot. Exhale. I always seem to burrow my way out of the folds.
And "motes" reminds me of the character Hazel Motes from Flannery O'Connor's "Wise Blood"...it always does even thought I read that book in 1993.
It's funny how languages, words hang on and remain connected to other texts. For me, I thought the word mote was grounded in Joyce's third story in Dubliners. I remembered the word being at the end of Araby when the boy gazes into the darkness. In my memory there was light there and it was the sharp light that burned. I looked and that isn't what happened.
DeleteNo mote or motes.
Hmm.
I wonder what text it is that I am recalling.
Thanks Brian for your response:)
The second scene is so beautiful - there is such serenity and acceptance. So moving.
ReplyDeleteThank you Tara,especially for your specificity.
DeleteAppreciate you taking tie to read and respond.
Hauntingly beautiful, atmospheric, moody, very artfully written. Glad I find your post today. Thank you for sharing such an intimate moment.
ReplyDeletehttps://barbarasut.wordpress.com/2015/03/11/theyre-back-spring-fever-in-the-local-pond/
Thank you so much. I took time to read your latest post and comment. Praise from you is a fine thing. I love what I read.
Delete