The Moment

The shade on our living room window diffuses the light. When the sun’s going down, the room glows golden. A blue turquoise Christmas tree from Target sits on the window sill—the apartment is decorated in white and black and turquoise. I left the tree up after Christmas as a spot of color. Backlit by the sun, framed by the skyline of New Orleans complete with blocky buildings and telephone poles, the tree stands like someone’s idea of hope.

The moment is static, the present. In the so-recent past looms the cogitating face of the boy, his mind working up images of a REALLY scary bird, a description which, in the end, makes him laugh. And the waggling head of the little blond-headed boy who runs into the bedroom, giddy with the joy of being awake for another day.

In the future is the half-remembered pain of surgery and debilitation. No bending, no getting out of the bed by yourself, the loss of proper day and night. But, in the hallway, under the bench, inside the basket, lies a new backpack bought for the coming days when I transform into an intentional walker, a woman who will not let one crank of these new fake hips go to waste.

The sun gathers itself into a bright ball, no longer spreading. The light gives way to a royal blue horizon. At the edge of mountainous cloud, sits a crown,  as golden as the thin bracelet on a child’s wrist.