Flowers on Sunday in the Window

I guess it is obvious I take these pictures where I live.  Here’s the window over here; my lady-like chintz arm chair over there.  I eat here and work here.  In the dark early hours of Saturday morning, I curled up here and cried – and fell asleep for a while, until I was ready to climb back into bed and dream.

The window is large and bright, but there’s a limit to how much light I can wring out of gloomy skies. So, if you look close, some petals are softer and darker than maybe they should be.  But it doesn’t matter very much to me.  These fragments of time are just about us looking at something together.  Grocery store flowers turning towards each other like a flock of red and yellow birds, flashing their bellies as they disperse into darker branches.  You can see it for yourself in the window light, and know that it’s true.

The worst things happen.  People leave us here without them, and time becomes heavy and real, like shoes made of lead.  The hard part is how ordinary things are still waiting for us. The empty chair persists, but so does the window light.  Somehow, someday, they start to co-exist.  But not yet.  Not today.

 

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