Shadows

I've always liked this picture. These are evening shadows descending the wall of our living room. The golden hued part is a reflection of a stained-glassed window. Very spectral, but very calming as well. Often, we sit on a couch in front of the stained-glass and watch the twilight flutter and trickle over everything. A certain poignance seems to stir itself, coloring our mood. We talk about our youth. Despite our son's skepticism, we had one, you know. The dog stretches out between us, only occasionally rousing himself. With frequent hand gestures, I try to describe the way my father used to fold and refold the paper when he was doing crosswords. Mary recounts a ride in her brother Bill's fancy convertible and how Bill refused, on pain of death, to let her wear her hair curlers. Suddenly the smoke alarm goes off. Something in the oven, long since forgotten, is reminding us of the present.