I usually wear contacts. I usually wear sunglasses. I usually dress for the weather. But yesterday it was glasses and a t-shirt and a jacket that wasn’t heavy enough. I was chilly.
So I stood in the sun and looked at the ridge across from me- at the bones of leafless trees limned against blue sky, at the sere sepia grass at my feet, at the drab but glittering concrete of the curb I stood on- and was disconcerted at how many edges everything has.
I was startled at the colors splashed across mountain and highway. They were different- not just in hue, but in saturation. Lighter.
Maybe it was the afternoon sunlight- but that often gilds things. Nothing was golden yesterday. Each thing was itself, its own shape and shade, but- attenuated. More ephemeral.
Perhaps it is that this has been a long winter for me. Perhaps it is that I was in Nashville and that is my home and I miss it so much, so much. Perhaps it is only that it is spring.
I don’t know why. But yesterday I was startled at the paleness and clarity of my vision, at the limits and boundaries of shape and color.
Yesterday I stood cold in the sunlight and watched margin and color sheer themselves, a wash stark and waterless on the eye.