This is what happens on a clear night when I cannot sleep, and the moon is full. I prowl through my house in the dark with a camera. No tripod. Just my own unsteady hand.
I prop myself against a wall and shoot, trying to capture the lamp-lit windows of my neighbors’ houses. The shutter stays open for an eternity. My camera weighs a ton. I am not steady enough. The lights look like flames. The reflection from the window throws itself across the room to where I am standing; the moon is a big white puddle on my floor.
The den has a pair of windows and an atrium door – a little more shimmering light. A patch of green appears beyond the balcony. Proof of spring. A tiny voice that whispers, I’m here.
In this room a window placed too high; a mistake I regret making now, but too late to change. A cabala of lights beyond the trees seems to agree. What WERE you thinking they ask.
My studio is a room with four windows and no curtains. I used to paint here. Now I write. The room has been overrun by books. And words.
I love this skulking around the house in the dark, while my husband sleeps, completely unaware that I am up. I feel like a child guarding a secret that no one knows but me.
You must promise not to tell.