Puddles and sky, some of Gloria's favorite things

Photo credit here.

Photo credit here.

Gloria wondered what people did who didn't daydream.  Where did they take their minds for rest, other than sleep, to step away from elbows on the sidewalk, sardine conditions on the subway, tedium at their desks or simply too much, for the moment, of everything that wasn't quiet.  She lived a life that looked close to perfect and it was a pleasing existence, one in which she made her own choices, kept a schedule that she set, breathed the scent of the sea and fresh air, had days that never wanted for beauty.  Even in the almost-perfect, one needed to slip outside the tent.  We can be, she thought, truants in our own minds and no one would ever know.

Puddles and tide pools knew her name, just as though she were one of the fairies who perched on their edges, letting them mirror on unruffled surfaces what ordinary sight often failed to detect.  She found the reflection of sky in a puddle, especially with fast-moving clouds revealing expanses of blue, to be a small miracle.  Tea in a teaspoon, lifted to the lips for a temperature reading, seeing into or beyond the tiny, fragrant pond, asking questions of your own eyes.

Back to as young an age as she could remember, Gloria loved in equal measure puddles and clouds after a rain.  The summer squall that lingered beyond forecasters' expectations made her want to squeal with glee.  Instead, to maintain her disguise as a grown-up while at work, she bustled.  Every movement was quickened and exaggerated with what could be called flair, like a dancer's hands.  She was already borne along by the wind that stirred the curtains, could feel herself grow light, lighter.  All concerns scattered, everything open to the air, unencumbered.  Wind is the best broom, she told herself, no cobweb can withstand it.