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
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