The Light that Filters Through
Before, in the silence of day, I notice the stillness of the sun, the lingering heat, the stagnant calm that stifles, stretching minutes into hours. So— we cook, we clean, we prepare, we keep our bodies working and our minds filled, play music both loud and soft, bustle with purpose, then stop for air— and we wait. Night falls. We hold our breath against the lash of the wind, now an angry dance against the windowpanes. A cacophony of rain, hard and fast, pelts down in thick, unruly sheets, relentless. We sit with our thoughts together, the flame of a single candle between us. I knead my fingers and press them to my forehead, feeling every tired bone, every tensed muscle. We think: Did we make the right choice? Then: It’s too late now. We blow out the candle; darkness falls heavy around us. Fix makeshift beds for the kids beside our own, place an army of pillows and blankets and my son’s favorite giant stuffed bear on the mattress. We settle in, closing our eyes and shielding our e...