April 2012

The child cupped her hands, wonderingly. The light sparkled and danced as she turned the orb this way and that. She had seen it glimmering in the dirt behind the compost heap. At first she thought it was an old ball, shiny with snail trails. But as she brushed granules from the surface, she felt nothing. Her arm sharply recoiled; fingertips quivering from kisses of light and air.

Then, curiously, she reached again. What would it feel like to hold light in your hands? Gently, she dug her nails in to the surrounding dirt and closing her eyes, felt for the light. The faintest tingling caused her to look. She smiled.

The child cupped her hands, wonderingly. She wanted to take it to her room and keep it for her own pleasure. She rolled the light through fingers now luminous and knew instantly that this was not light to keep in a bulb or leave smoldering in flames. It must belong somewhere special.

Yet the urge to keep it was overwhelming. She had found it. It was hers, wasn’t it? She had discovered it in dirt, uncovered and held it tenderly. She would look after it. She could make something special with it. Maybe give it some pop stick legs and a bottle lid hat. Her eyebrows asked the question but the light simply shimmered. It didn’t do anything much: just sparkled. But she would make something special with it: a shiny pop stick person- the very shiniest.

The child cupped her hands, wonderingly. Then, on sudden impulse, she tossed it against the back wall of the house and saw the imprint of light dazzle then fade on the chipped red bricks. She dropped it on to the ground, rolling it along the grass with one bare toe; tentatively, fearfully. It left marks of shimmering sunlight, brighter than that great fire in the sky.

The tears were hot and painful. This was not hers. How she yearned for it to be, but it wasn’t. Gently she bent to the earth and scooped up the light. She shook debris from the sphere and drew in a deep breath.

The artist cupped her hands, wonderingly.