Threshold Light

A beam cuts through the afternoon, dust motes swimming like small galaxies, and for a moment the ordinary room becomes cathedral, becomes threshold, becomes the space between forgetting and arrival.

The light catches nothing we meant to keep— a chipped cup, last week's newspaper, the corner where the spider works. Yet each object burns with its own quiet radiance, as if the room had been waiting to be seen.

We stand suspended in this brightness, neither here nor there, neither then nor now, knowing the light will fade, knowing it already has, knowing we are the ones who let it go.