It was Palm Sunday evening when the sky spoke of summer, the winter came in snows, and the grasses glowed gold in the spring neon green. Unless you are counting the thousands upon thousands of leaves on the beds of the forest, or the towering trees in the distant horizon, the remnants of fall were nowhere to be seen.
If I sit at the screen for too long without typing, the computer screen goes dark and the darkness reveals the morning face of my reflection. I am startled by the view, but not surprised, and not preoccupied with the dislikes of what I see. My color seems pale and the light in my eyes appears dim and far away. I’d rather not look.
My Narnia lamp is all that remains of Christmas cheer, and lest I go on speaking in the language of lack, I glance behind me, see the lamppost, and smile. The living room is dark, and books and toys are strewn about. I have neither dread nor strong excitement for the day. The twinkling white lights look very much to me like stars.