Solar

The sun was staining her skin. It’s warmth was branding her as its own, and she could almost watch the melanin pool beneath white tissue. Down her whole body this tan returned her to someone else. Like a sunflower she followed it across the sky, remembering its embrace. Someone she had known so long ago.

Solar exposure. Vitamin D. A necessity. A privilege. A seasonal rarity this side of September. It warmed her whole body as she lay alone, unconcerned by any passing eyes on her urban street. Unconcerned, as warmth always granted, by her flesh on display in the day and by what those passing eyes might think.

Here in a cold city, constantly wrapped in layers she never dreamt herself in need of, exposure had become more mental than physical. Exposure to moods, to rules and opinions, to ever changing oppression, and most recently to the social whims of those acquaintances rich in popularity but poor in time. She was still knew here. There were no distractions, or at least none that were meaningful. Only banal attempts at what passed for pleasure now. All of it replacing the human need to be in the light. To be seen.

But not today. The temperature had impressed. The monotonous grey of the sky has dissolved. This morning her front yard was sacred. A creased yoga mat and cushion. A tiny patch of grass. Her bare skin and the texture of light. A clothes hanger wearing her hand washed intimates so the sun cast lacy patterns over the front steps. For at least an hour she had herself and herself alone. No husband. No children. Just her and her thoughts. Her memories. Her hopes. Future. Past. Their rigid dichotomy.

An hour wasn’t enough.

The front yard didn’t get sun beyond midday, and already clouds were threatening the afternoon. Exasperation had her out here today. Annoyed that some sense of comfort had finally chosen this moment to reveal itself, after how many days it had been truly needed. To be warmed by the sky, embraced by that thing so trusted as a human, and to be absent of any requirement of her. Her time constantly felt like everyone else’s. She felt needed in every way except her own. Even today, with some warmth in the air, her thoughts had gone to the washing. To the pile of that which needed cleaning by hand. With nowhere to go, with a lockdown running into an endless cycle, she had worn whatever she wanted in an urge to feel her own. With a line full of lingerie and her body exercised by worry and repetition and chore, shredded of any stores, this moment perhaps seemed more curated than it in fact was. If the careful placement of a brand was added perhaps the scene would be complete.

But this was not what she wanted. This was for her and some semblance of normality. Of respite. A tiny inhale from what life had become with its repetition and loss of purpose.

She brushed an ant gently from the mat, careful not to damage it. The self-recognition was all to apparent.

This felt good. This felt real.

Someone walked past the fence, eyes twisted so not to be caught.

“Morning!” She called. A cheeky smirk on her lips scoring a point on a tally board no one saw.

The person marched on silently.

She had been so surprised by the way in which her presence was edited from passersby. They walked laps of the block as everyone did, and familiarity had not grown but rather become unfamiliar. Nobody wanted to have to think about anything else. Anybody else.

There had been vague ideas of a future when they moved here. From overseas to interstate. Further from what they had known. What they knew. Then, the world had gone to pot.

Vague ideas became whispers. Then unspoken. Then tragic.

Being a parent, a wife, a lover, a daughter, a sister, a businesswoman, an entrepreneur, a volunteer, a dreamer, an artist, a realist, a romantic, a friend, a more-than-friend, an acquaintance, a fantasy, a dream, a concept, even a stranger, all took their toll. They each asked something of her that was inoissible to give up. Instead buried as though it might one day be unearthed, opened to a light just like this, but more forgiving and more full of possibility.

It seemed unlikely at best.

There was a bee in the grass just beyond her. Its hum was a song so gentle and yet the perfect soundtrack for this moment. She was allergic, but the risk was to flirt with consequence in an inconsequential existence. Just the thought of it going wrong had her heart quicken.

Thoughts had begun forming in her mind recently that would perhaps not have surfaced in other circumstances.

Conversations had been spoken aloud rather than hinted at.

Growth, maturity, adventure. Something. It was forming.

She was changing. She was learning to forget what came before. She was in need. In need of needs. Her own.

The shadows fluttered slightly on the steps. The way light was partitioned, carefully selected as it passed through the lace, it revealed more about the filter of reality, of chance, of coincidence than she had considered before.

A little sky. A moment to think.

She heard the sound of her son echoing up the street. They would be home shortly and the routine would begin again.

She sighed audibly and lifted herself from the mat. Beneath her a shadow formed where she had been. For so long that shadow had been all she had known. Her. A vague, black silhouette. No form or feature. Always tethered to something she couldn’t see. It was only now, staring into the light that she was beginning to recognise what cast it.