The Sunlight on the Towels

There was a window in our apartment that didn’t look like much.

Third floor. Too high to feel connected to anything outside… but just low enough for the light to find its way in.

And every afternoon, it did.

Not all at once. Not dramatically.

Just… slowly.

It would stretch across the floor in quiet patches, like it was searching for something to land on.

So I gave it something.

I would take towels— whatever we had— and lay them down exactly where the light touched.

One by one.

Carefully.

Like I was building something sacred out of something no one else would notice.

And then I’d lay there.

Flat on my back. Eyes closed. Pretending I was somewhere else.

Somewhere warm. Somewhere safe.

If I pressed my hands gently against my eyes, colors would start to appear.

Kaleidoscopes.

Soft at first.

Then brighter.

Moving, shifting… almost like they were alive.

I didn’t have words for it back then.

I just knew…

it felt like mine.