Thursday, September 25, 2014

About Dawn

The curtains of houses are yellow. At some moment, just a few moments ago, the doorways, the painted trims, the varieties of flowers in the neighborhood became visible. Space opened in a new way before the light. It happened between this glimpse and the last, precisely when you weren't looking.

Or one morning before daylight you wake up a little nervous, prepared to leave a place you love in order to go somewhere you've longed to arrive, a place you've never been, a place that will, like all unvisited places, turn out to be smaller yet more important than you ever imagined. It's cold when you close the car door and start the engine. Soon, past the familiar neighborhood and cruising on the less familiar highway, the gray visibility of dawn sets in. Roadsigns that had hung in blackness now stand against a sky. A landscape opens all around where there had been only the memory of a world. There's the road ahead. You turn off your headlights. Then.

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