Night, rain, gifts, and a slice of sun
On a night, a rainy night, too, to be there eating a slice of sun, was some achievement. One of those achievements that only a semi-divinity, to whom a whole divinity might have granted unconceivable gifts, would conceivably seem capable of. But, no – there, with him, with her, everything was simply, divinely possible, even those things – or especially those things – that seemed, complexly, humanly impossible.
They were of sun, the colors, the glow. And like the sun, warm, open. The cheese, sun colored and thickly cut, in the manner of an almost sunset. Cut and almost set, really, on the verge of a world almost flat, albeit round, in the manner of a plate. And the jam, sun colored, overflowing, in filaments, the open jar. Like sweet beams overflowing an open sun about to be emptied, in the manner of a pumpkin being emptied with a spoon. Of pumpkin, the jam, sun emptied with a spoon, in the manner of beams that overflow it when it is almost set and thickly cut, in the manner of a sun colored cheese, by the verge of a plate in the manner of a world that is flat, albeit round.
Divine, the slice of sun eaten although it was night, and a rainy night, too. Even more divine, that possibility of everything, there, with her, with him, especially the complexly, humanly impossible things, being achievable, quite simply. So simply, that they could be eaten. In slices, in spoonfuls, with just a glance, in big mouthfuls, or reverently setting them at the verge of being almost roundly savored, with their fingertips. In the manner of the unconceivable gifts. Which was, there, always, their manner and conceivable achievement. His and hers. A gift.
© 2006 Alexandra* ~ OneLight*®