Dust

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Who knew this sign of decay, of finality, of that to which we return, could also be so beautiful, so graceful, so lively as it floats in the sliver of sunlight that punctures the slit between my bedroom curtains? My toddler son asks, “What is it?” and I answer, “Dust,” and I watch as he watches each speck twirl, like fireflies skimming the nighttime air, like plankton riding the currents in the deep. My son grins, then jumps through the beam of light again and again, back and forth, parting the air and setting the dust on a new lazy path. Eventually he will tire of the game, the sun will move, the sliver will disappear, but the dust will remain, no longer illuminated, but floating just the same.

Photo "...ti aspetto fuori" provided by Bruno Maiolo, via Flickr creative commons license.