Boston Reflections of Night and Day


He stands alone in the window, seeing the vague outline of what someone else might see. The luxury of being home in the middle of the day does not escape him, the illicit thrill of being unknown is an added spark. Slowly, the sunlight moves through the room, passing deeper into the sky, climbing up and over the bed.

These are his favorite hours to be there – from about three o’clock to six o’clock – the last stretch of sunlight in the bedroom. It is a quiet time. He honors that. No music, no talking, no phone. It takes a while to embrace that stillness, to calm the racing mind and quell the rushing heart. Eventually, though, if he can be patient, if he can let the thoughts come and go, everything settles down. A peace appears, not so much deliberately or with any sort of announcement, but more in the absence of chaos, in the removal of accustomed agitation. The relief of that is the closest thing to religion.

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