She tells me that she has always carried her own portable sun. Light and compact, it is wonderfully useful. In its warm rays, she can dance naked on mountain-tops in winter; and when she feels someone threatens her, she simply turns up its light, and he must turn away.
As we talk, I look more and more at her face, and less at her portable sun. Her eyes glow with its reflected light; in them, I can see the whole world. No, not the whole world -- only the good and pleasant parts.
There are words in my heart; there are words in my throat; there are words on my lips. Before I can speak, she smiles, and turns off her portable sun. I am struck dumb.
Copyright 1993 Edward Gaillard. All rights reserved.