Issue 92, Summer 1984
The best day I remember was the Easter we lived in Detroit, locked in the apartment all day. The furniture, the rugs, began to breathe. Geraniums hummed. I thought, so this is a lively place. It’s what happens when somebody’s got a chance to think.
Early, about seven o’clock, I said to my husband, Loren, it’s bright out, which was at first a complaint. But Loren can sleep with the sun in his eyes; he didn’t wake. I believe it’s more natural, though, with the eyes closed, to be in the dark, and that is why, very deliberately, when the sunlight compressed itself from a general glow to a four-cornered field next to the bed, I got up and pulled down the green shades in both rooms. The floorboards were cool or warm, depending where I stepped, and checking around, I found a warmed-up spot near the living-room window where I stood for a while with my feet pressed Hat, so the heat moved upwards through my ankles. My feet are spongy and pale, the white kind of feet that sculptors put at the ends of women’ s legs. I know what luxury-living means, soaking them in the sun.
In the kitchen, I took a blue-painted egg from the refrigerator, poured some milk, and let my eyes travel the walls in the indoor light. It was greenish, undersea light, very mild. I peeled the egg and sliced it with a steak knife onto a big plate, where the two halves slid together. They arranged themselves, it certainly seemed to me then, as down-hearted, pitying eyes. I just whispered, don’t you worry. Not today.