Playing with the shadows my hands create in the light that is just right only ten minutes each day might be my new favorite activity. Some people play golf. I dance with obscurity, briefly.
My room in my childhood home bathed in light so warm it reminded me of cake straight out of the oven. You could rest your hands on the surface while becoming intoxicated with what soon would be ingested. Not a night goes by when I fail to long for that warmth, that reassurance.
I remember the tents we were staying in when I was 12 flooded. It was a church camp, the first (but not last) one I attended. Christ couldn't dry out the down-filled sleeping bags fast enough, so some slept in cars. I was told to snuggle up with another 12-year-old for warmth. I was amazed that it actually worked. Still, I craved a concrete floor. Concrete was dry, solid.
My fingers make the bird fly. Each item crucial for flight, despite not having hollow bones. I want to cup the light in my hands and keep it for myself myself myself, but it escapes through my palms and I am released.
I sit here, cold but content.