Reflection: The throwing back by a body or surface of light, heat, or sound without absorbing it.
Reflections of things already long absorbed into body and soul. Water standing broken on the pavement like pieces of broken mirror, showing what is, what was, what is no more. Fragments of happy lives and then, less so, cut short, cut off, thrown back at me.
The light of the back yard under the cottonwood, like southern France; the heat of summers spent riding horses at Bishops Lodge at eight, at thirty pitting little sour cherries into bowls for pie, reading Colette, walking up Canyon Road to the low gallery with open door and tawny wooden floors and on its whitewashed walls black and white photographs by Kertesz; the sound of voices from a farther room (echoes of Prufrock), all of the light and heat and sound thrown back at me and when not caught in time, falling and shattering. “I know the voices dying with a dying fall.”
Reflections on selling a childhood house.
image: Punta Arena, Reflejos, Eliana R. Gallardo Carcamo