Bright. Like the light you see at the end of the hall. From the kitchen. From the small light that flickers above the sink. The one turned on by the pull cord that sways back and forth. It’s dim but it’s bright. Bright like the light that shimmies it’s way through the blinds. The ones that are drawn closed almost all of the year. It is barely bright anymore, but it is illuminating small things around you. You can make out the shape of the chair in the corner, the pile of clothes on the floor, the dark shadow of fuzz that is the dog at the foot of the bed. The shakey evidence of shape proves to you that all is not dark. Not yet. Though some days it feels pretty near, Bright manages to shine it’s way through something. How it’s there is something of science, not miracle or hope. And yet you cannot cling to science. To molecules that float in your space. You can cling to brightness though.

What it’s made of I don’t have time for. I cannot be concerned with how it got here, but just that it is here. And the moment it leaves, all I will think of is its absence. How it glimmers through the trees like it is made of fire. How it dances on the water like it is water.

A tiny traveler is Bright. The weary end of some source. The sun? Electricity? The core of a burning hot earth? Wherever (or whatever) it has derived from I do not care for. I wont give it a name. Instead I will just acknowledge it. Allow it to stay. I will close my eyes to it, but be filled with warmth at it’s existence, despite my hiding. In crowded rooms I will look for it. As it appears in the reflection of someone’s glasses, or the shine of someones utensils in hand. I will nod to my weary traveler Bright, and hope that someone else has too taken notice of the flicker. But if not, I will revel in the notion that I have this companion.

Bright is a friend to any, but to many, she is unseen.