Just this morning, when the sun first entered the space of darkness that hugged my street, all of the brightly painted houses pretended to be gray. I marveled at how such a blurry color could appear sharp like the corner of each window sill. My neighborhood stood like a structured fog that did not bide by the whims of the wind—a force that stood to divert everything else but my gaze.

Color bled into the houses as the sun lolled into the sky. I became sicker. My eyes became greener. And the unstoppable light was taking control of me. I shambled from my bed with an overcoming sense of purpose. Every step hurt. My face collapsed in a smear against the window. I struggled and panted condensation on the shiny pane.

A wonderful stiffness alleviated my agony. The fine grains of my soul sifted free, but I remained— slumped on the window— trapped.

Does the little boy who has found my body know that I can see him?