To the sunbeam that crosses my living room every afternoon: I love you, and I resent you. You arrive at 1:12, glorious and golden, and I put my entire body into you. You leave at 3:40, with no warning, and take the warmth with you.
I follow you across the carpet, a dozen inches at a time, like a pilgrim. I have rolled across the whole floor in your wake. I have never reached the end of you. Maybe the end of you is the end of the day.
Sunbeam, if you are reading this, please slow down. I have so much more to say. I have only just begun to lie here.
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