Of Dust and Light
It’s never easy waking up. Not when you know that today, tomorrow, or even the day after will never be like the days before. It’s the same process every morning— I gingerly try peeling back my eyelids. They are stubborn and resilient. A sign, I imagine, of the day to come. The signs have never been wrong. It takes a lot of rubbing and coaxing to open them fully and try not to focus on my grief.
Today was brighter than usual. Too bright, but then, it’s always too bright. All the brightness in my world left with her. But still the sun goes on shining, indifferent. Warm beams of light streamed down like honey through my window, illuminating the tiny flecks of dust that floated lazily along. I have always felt solace in watching the dust. It somersaults, dances, and floats happily until it finally moves away from the light to where it could not be seen anymore.
Maybe that’s what happens to people. Maybe they just move away from the beams of light to where we could not see them. But that doesn’t mean they are not there.
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