The rain falls down the glass, time-worn cracks tracing the road map of my life. Practical considerations have no ascendancy in the pointed monologue of memory or the inner dialog of reason. I can see the light coming through my bathroom window and dancing like music alighting on glistening copper walls. I see other things there too. A shoulder and a rare smile. I remember the falling curls resting on the couch as I strained to recall their detail now that it was just out of reach. I remember how tears burned on my face in the heat of that summer day. Life would continue apace I think I knew, but at the time I wallowed in my first firebranding of youth.
And a partial lifetime later, scratched into the glass at jarring angles, the portrait becomes more clear. Foggy white light surrounds her in the distance of time but I can’t tell if I am looking forward or back. Or maybe it’s just a dream, a glass of milk filled with white lilies. Time’s priceless glass sculptures are waiting for my devastating hands to wreak them, the delicate artwork of the universe standing before me hanging by threads on arms, my very breath moving lifetimes.
Traveling in my bubble, I finger the rainbow curls of my experiences all around me, the never ending tapestry of meaning, if only I could decipher it.