Excerpt, below, from an in-progress fiction draft. The shadow in the image is from a giant crinum lily that’s planted by my garage.
Outside the trees breathed and shook, pregnant with spring growth, shedding last year’s leaves like dried tears. I’d shut my doors to any possible cold or wind or contagion. But the light slipped inside my closed bedroom window, and she danced.
This light had a presence – a charm – a weight, of its own. Like everything else lately, it made me think of Lily. I stepped closer to the radiance on the wall and it flickered across my skin, warm and playful, a part of me somehow, but just out of reach. This idea tightened my chest and took my breath. I closed my eyes to try to get the feeling to stop. The light was so beautiful I thought I might absolutely die if I couldn’t join it.
It took two breaths, dark inside my moonless center, to push the feeling back to reasonable. I set up my camera and tripod quickly, scared of losing the light. Back in her glow, saffron particles kissed my face, and their warmth relaxed me as I pressed the remote shutter. When I looked at the photo later — at my body, a whorl of shadow and sun — I could see Lily there too, as real as if she were in the room.
Words and photo © Jaime Greenberg, 2020
