Old Light

In 1504, a small calico cleaned her paw near a rough
well. Two children threw sticks a few yards

away. And the sun reflected off them and traveled
back out of an atmosphere no one yet understood. This

is how it always goes. It is no kind of magic. This is how
we see into the pasts of far away objects and the just-

past we call the present of what is right in front of us.
But imagine for a second we are dancing through

space and we intersect the light from that exact moment
and accounting for diffusion and any meaningful refraction

can somehow make sense of cat, children’s game, the promise
of water. There would be no scent, no taste. The children have

no voices, nor the leaves, nor wind. The scene has no purpose
left in it. It is the ghost of an idea. But since there was no

photography, none of us have seen 1504 unrendered. If we move
closer to Earth, we move closer to now. We are not characters

in our own stories, we are narrators. I have never seen myself
fall asleep or take a shower or make love. As we zoom in now,

it is my ninth birthday and, for the first time, I see myself
on a tree branch. I am either singing or talking to myself. I do not

know how I feel. Now I am eleven and being hit in the face
with a skateboard. It looks so much scarier from afar. I still carry

the steel plate needed to hold it back together. Then
I see myself eating a pretzel with my father who is as gone

as the children in 1504. Closer and closer to now. A year ago, when
I hear the news of my father, my own cat licks my face. He purrs on

my chest. Even his rough tongue is only memory now. Then it is yesterday
and I am alone in the rain near a lamppost. I look taller than I think

of myself. I am heading toward my car which I will point home
and I am worrying about what next will turn into light, what next

I will have to take to space to try to intercept just to pretend
evidence has anything to do with the bodies who leave it.