Wednesday afternoon in April

It is a rare sunny day where you live. So scram, curtains! Rise, blinds. Get thee to a nunnery, front door. Let in allll the light.

The oversized dog blanket looks like the topography of some blue and cream planet: folds, bundles, uproots. In one spot, two waves, one after the other, the first in the shape of a mother, prostrate, crying or praying or both; the second looks like Tilda Swinton as the White Witch.

The sun hits the dead 2007 Vibe in the driveway so that the registration and inspection stickers become gleaming globs of lightning. You can’t help staring. When you finally shut your eyes, a dot of light slips in; behind closed eyelids you watch its life cycle play out: its blooming orange prime; the paling that follows; the dark that always arrives as an accent before slowly swallowing the last of that greatest, falsest light. When you open your eyes, rainbows, everywhere.