What We Do With The Light
The woman walked out onto the porch. It was that early morning time where you take one step west, you're in shadow, one step east, you're in light.
The woman's feet were bare. Her hair was short and auburn. Her face had no makeup or expression.
If you were a guessing person, you might guess she had just gotten up. Perhaps started a pot of coffee in the kitchen. Then made her way out to the porch, still more unawake than awake.
But then she stepped, with her bare feet, east. Now, her face, bare of makeup and expression, was covered in light. And it was just light, the same ordinary light from the same sun 92 million miles away that covers you and me on any clear day.
But the woman on the porch did something irregular with the light. She stood still and gentle in it, closed her eyes, and inclined her whole self towards it. And as she did, her face woke up into a smile that could be described 92 million ways, but maybe the best way would be appreciative.
Then she sank into a chair on the porch, put her bare feet up, and she savored that early morning light.
Who knows if her phone calls would get returned that day, if the pot of coffee in the kitchen would be any good or if the headlines would leave her feeling hopeless. Who knows what living would ask of her today.
But before all that, she gave herself over to a few early morning moments on the porch.
And she savored the ordinary light that traveled 92 million miles to cover her.
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