|A Woman Turning (M.A. Reilly, 2014)|
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.
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.