Into the Light
It’s morning and a warm mist has descended upon the farm. A soft hazy glow filters through the dense, heavy air. Water droplets from a maple tree sprinkle the shed as I walk past, making me wonder if maybe it were raining. The ground lies dry beneath my feet, so I surmise it to be a heavy dew.
Entering the house I’m greeted by the usual sight — Marilyn at the end of the kitchen table in her woolly-thick, faded orange terrycloth robe.
“You’re early!” Marilyn booms.
“Not really that early,” I snap back.
“Coffee?” she offers.
I sit reading the paper a little and come upstairs after that.
There’s a fly now buzzing round this little upper room, zooming about madly, caroming off ceiling and walls, landing only to be still but a moment and abruptly buzzing off again. He’s one of those big house flies that I’ve been slaughtering without reprieve during the regular intervals in which they make their distracting dramatic appearances.
At this moment, and I can’t tell for sure, I believe he’s in the light.