Colors emerge at night, programmed. No trace of the human hand, no flick of a wrist.
Tail lights, street lights, twinkling decorations, the conical Christmas tree-topper of the Space Needle, the college navy and action green lights delimiting construction cranes, office buildings whose florescent bulbs are light-sensored to dusk and dawn, their purpose to deter squatters, criminals, disperse like cockroaches the unwanted overflow, the fact that they form predictable constellations in the night sky an afterthought, the way ocean waves reveal undulating lines of black oil deposits in the sand.
Collateral beauty.
I awoke from a dream to the damp cold, vertical strands of clear water reflecting the achromatic grays of clouds, sky, rooftops, streets. I have had to resuscitate the house, chilled to its very bones, its rooms dark, heaters sputtering to life after resting dormant, lacking human footfall, no breath warming the space, no imposition of light, sound, cooking aromas, hot showers’ steam. I reached into the freezer and found the last of the summer blueberries, their deep purplish blue preserved, the homemade huckleberry jam gifted to me days before I left. That was two days ago, and still I savor the burst of bright red on the airy interior of the golden-brown baguette.
I will have to resuscitate myself. Breathe warmth and hues into today, find the joy, the aliveness. Flick my wrists and turn on every light, scatter the unwanted cucarachas of longing, this most virulent wintering that drains vibrancy, flattens the now. Last night I lit the yahrzeit candle. Today I’ll use the grapefruit-scented moisturizer that lacks SPF, reach beyond the black garments in the closet, wrap the crimson woven scarf around my shoulders, dab tuberose perfume, stir yellow passion fruit with its dark seeds into creamy white yogurt, sprinkle bright green scallions and cilantro over fresh pink salmon, set the table with the cloth of Verna lemons and dainty ivory flowers on a backdrop of soft cobalt, fill the vase with fragrant rosemary stems and orange winterberry branches that are cascading over the barren garden, mull the deep burgundy wine, crank up the heat, unleash my music, sing the wordless niggun that storied my childhood, roots me to ancestral land 5000 years and 7000 miles away, dance myself home.