Suddenly I found myself among the leaves, diffuse as light, but darker. Almost a shadow, if I’d found myself at all.
For it came of a simple moment in-between. Between responding to this or fetching that. Perhaps waiting for coffee to brew, or just breathing. In cold sunlight. In kitchen. It had something to do with my daughter. Or she was the first one I told.
“I’ve found myself,” I burst upstairs and explained, holding out my phone which had captured the image like communication. “I’ve found myself, see?”
But no one quite did. I was thereby forced to point it out. Which is a lot more like making something up rather than discovering. More like envisioning than recognition or taking notice.
Yet I can tell you I saw right through it in that gap. Made out my identity in that fluster of sunrays and blockage.
An insubstantial sort of silhouette designated by a drove of other things – that “it” – that ephemeral, vacuous “me.”
In fact, the way I remember it, I was harried by flickering thoughts, responsibilities, and a mantled dose of tired, and it was only morning. I’d backed up against the steely sink and weighted my palms, hoping my neck might loosen by letting it drop. The floor there.
Something alerted me – a “honey?” or a child’s announcement from some other room – and so I swung and hoisted toward action. My roving eyes sniffed at calendar and began steadying toward a list comprising my future, but instead.
Instead, a patterning of leaves translating immediately to a scatter-shot messaging of light, exposing some presence in its midst that was absorbing or otherwise deflecting. Signifying, nonetheless. A kind of tracing of a head, a photo-graph I guess, a contour drawing by our prominent star. And if light could trace it, could scribble a quick sketch out of me, well then,
I’d guess I’d found myself among the leaves,
which went something like these pages.
N Filbert 2012