The prism is a piece of cut crystal hung in my window. We bought it at the Jersey shore in the late 70s when I was a little boy. I asked my dad for it when I was going off to college but for some reason he said no, then my mom wrapped it in a sock and put it with my things, with a handwritten note.

If the sun is at the right angle, it catches light and makes rainbows throughout the living room. When I sit down to write “cold,” without notes or a theme, it feels like I’m spinning the prism, reflecting whatever images are with me.

It’s true, the well of inspiration is not a pool or a bucket or a barrel. It needs to be a river that’s continuously flowing. Yesterday, I learned a friend’s husband died and anything I wanted to say or write about receded, taken over by her loss.

I wanted to replace it with images of life and beauty, and have one of our daughter Charlotte, to share: Charlotte, with a pink sequined skirt standing in the doorway, with the sun catching the sequins, reflecting patterns on the carpet. The cat, playing with the patterns and trying to catch the tiny white lights as they move.

I’m never quick enough with the camera to catch these moments, but this one I want to save.

About pinklightsabre

Bill Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
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1 Response to Prism

  1. alesiablogs says:

    Death has an uncanny ability to make us speechless.


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