The light is thinner but somehow more brilliant against the maple leaves, a soft, saturated yellow that makes you squint a little at first, before you get lost in it, and their blood-red stems.
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The moon was high and bright and the air was cold and sweet and their hands were warm and gentle against the skin of my back.
This world is hard and complicated and difficult and I'm here for that, and also, being with you is like diving into cool water on a hot day.
I got home, and the sky was the right color again and the air smelled like air should smell and felt like air should feel and I walked around the neighborhood in the fall sunshine, checking to make sure it was all still there, and there were still so many dahlias in the school garden.
The moon was barely a day old, and huge as it set in the twilight above the hills, a slender golden thread cradling sweet dark roundness.
I had forgotten how gentle Shabbat is, alone, in my silent room in the silent house, suspended in a bubble of warm yellow light, with two yellow candleflames on the altar for company.
I stayed in bed all day with a sore throat, and went to bring the garbage bins in from the curb at twilight, and the rough, pebbly concrete felt good against the soles of my feet, hard and grainy and almost ticklish.
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AuthorBitter Water
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License. Archives
June 2019
Categories© Francie Nevill and Every Sweet Thing, 2017.
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