A Simple Sunshiny Day

She often predicted her own future--perhaps they were dreams, perhaps they were fanciful fascinations. She'd shudder into awareness, hanging breathless in the Kafkaesque place between waking and sleeping, when lightless shadows flitted across the patterns the venetian blinds had lain throughout the room like wraiths in stealth coming (at last) to take her away.

None of her predictions ever came true. She never expected them to but believed the foretellings were full of power and strength, as if they alone could carry her through the rest of her life, maybe even without the guilt that had recently consumed her and made her second-guess her every decision.

Her favorite, and perhaps the single hinge for everything else she dreamed about, was the adumbration that she would find her way to a simple, sunshiny day. It was all she wanted, or all she thought she wanted. When it came to her at last, she almost let it slip by without recognition.

She worn a white sundress, the bodice laced with tiny seed pearls and exquisite embroidery. Its skirt was full, gauzy, and crinkled, tickling her kneecaps as it swished against her skin. She was happy. Somehow, she was happy.

Dew on blades of grass. Dew. Dew on spidery thin webs clinging gracefully to power lines. Where is he . . . what is he?

She stood framed in the doorway, watching the webs glisten, watching them rise gently in the breeze then float back into position. They never, ever broke. Earthy aromas reached her as if they too, were searching for a place to alight and live. Another fanciful notion.

Something stronger than mere nature shone a light into the clearing at the top of the hill. Wet flecks of pure gold drifted among the pine needles. They danced and swirled and twinkled at just past nine o'clock on a sweet September morning. She smiled and took two steps forward; immediately the light began to fade from around her.

Where is he? Does he forgive me? Can he? Does he love me still?

The clearing remained drenched, dipped in sunlight as yellow as dandelion blooms. Her gods, deities, whatever, worked together, greasing all the sharp points between she and the clearing to ease her way. She could only follow and exclaim, feeling as if she were stepping out of the abyss, prepared to fall or fly--it didn't matter which.

Drifting through stem and trunk . . . almost.

Passing through stone and wood . . . nearly.

Moving through light and shadow . . . absolutely.

A glance behind showed darkness, thunderheads, and the outline of her bare feet in the grass. Wisps of steam rose from the still-warm imprints. And the whole, unbroken webs seemed to glow.

Yes . . . he does love me. I know it.

Forward she moved, not knowing or caring that she would live a long life. Not aware that all her struggled-for words, chosen so carefully, would save her in the end. Not even knowing that her son had already forgiven her and, like she, only waited for reunion, longing all the time. All that mattered was the golden clearing, the treasury, the light it contained, and the hint of something she needed to understand.

She approached with awe and something like respect, the thin brown needles seeming to catch the light and cast it in her direction. Like a beacon in the storm.

A smile broke upon her face, sudden, deep awareness filling her. The child could not forget his mother. He couldn't--wouldn't--allow the things she had taught him to fade away.

The yellow light, the precious alacrity so imbued with elan vital and cacoethes. These things were her destiny all combined and they reassured her that no matter what she had done or where she had gone, the love of the child was hers forever as long as she never stopped reaching.

Even when the dew-struck webs broke from their moorings, thunder filled the sky, and the clearing was plunged into darkness, the smile stayed upon her lips.

This was her life, contained for just a moment in the magic of a simple, sunshiny day.