Twilight, that soft, wistful, nostalgic time of day, awakens in her a gentle and comforting sadness. She remembers evenings in the house that wasn't her home but had been ample enough to give room to her protective fantasies. Descents at dusk to the stairs leading to the woods. Owl-light walks to cicada symphonies beckoned by the trees that knew all but told little. Lights were always on upstairs and movements could be seen, patterns of lives of which she had no part. Shadows enfolded her as she imagined a mother's arms might have done in other circumstances and now, when sunset becomes a recent memory, her mind returns, echoing a place for which she felt no love at that time.
She has lived long beyond the childhood trees much as she lived in the house when she was young. Could it be time to return?
Thanks to The Mag.