Why does this make you catch your breath?
Is it the way it holds light,
or the way light curves around it?
Is it the heaviness of all that light in your hand?
Is it the fact that those bubbles are caught solid in time?
It is that, isn’t it—that fact of ethereal things, caught and still. The thought that all those mercurial, transparent, fleeting things you never get to look at long enough could rest, solid and weighty, in your hand. Alive with light.
If there is a word for that thing that makes you believe, for half a moment, that you could hold all those other things—every bubble you broke trying to catch, for instance, or every glowing moment that slipped away—in your hand and gaze into them as long as you want
you cannot think of it.
The word, too, must be encased in glass, and just out of reach.
The word, too, must be encased in glass, and just out of reach.
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