"Does it happen all at once, this knowing, or bit by bit?" she asks.

 

"When the light turns on, you can see everything all at once. It is like a whole story in your mind, but then you can pay closer attention and look at this railing, or that wall as if they are sentences and words within the story of the whole building." I wonder if this makes sense. 

 

She shifts her stance, reaching out to trace her fingers along the railing between us. She smiles, perhaps at its hammered surface, maybe imagining this thing I call light.

 

"I think I would feel safer, knowing where I am and what is around me. Sometimes the danger of falling and being hurt frightens me." Her smile fades, though she does not seem sad, just longing.

 

 

The other day I heard a story about a blackness that is threatening marriage. It hovered over me all day, and I felt chilled in spite of sweaters and sunshine. I stumbled along, not quite seeing my daughters when they chatted to me about a book they are reading. I overheard a brewing tantrum in the other room from Benjamin but it felt too far away. The door swinging open announced that John was walking into the kitchen.

 

The darkness of what I was stewing about was all around me and I could not see where I was.