Missing You

There are windows. Spaces of sunlight or moonlight when we agree to let people in.

How to explain a shut door and then an open one? How to explain a connect? How to explain memory? Or an image that is a thousand feelings mixed up with a thousand colors.

My mother takes pictures. Thousands of them. Probably billions. I sometimes wonder about her obsession. To find the perfect image. If she takes just one more maybe she'll capture the feeling and she won't have to keep looking.

But the kind of feeling that she wants to feel can't be captured with a camera.

It's elusive, mystical, magical. And it comes in through windows, with moonlight and sunlight, when we are least expecting.