“Mother?”

“Yes?”

She called me as we were getting ready to drive her up to her first term at university, taking the final bags from her room into the hall.

“Please can you come here?”

“Of course,” I said.

We had enjoyed several special months of being together in the twilight that is that time between final exams and the start of university. Between May and the end of September we had frequent trips to eat ramen, to see plays and exhibitions. We shared silly jokes, funny words that only the two of us could understand; a special language just for us. I made the most of every last second with her before she left our home.

“It’s the light,” she said as I reached the top of the stairs.

“Oooohhhhhhh! Isn’t it pretty!” I agreed as the sunrise glowed around her.

We have shared so many lovely moments in light; she writes poetry about it. I take pictures. And we talk about it all the time. We look at each other’s Pinterest boards about light, we send each other pictures of light that we know will make each other smile. We talk about it as much as we do about the sea; all those words you can use to describe it.

“It’s been pretty all week, but too early in the morning for you,” I said.
“It’s an omen,” she declared.

And with that we put the final bag into the car and headed up north.

I will miss sharing the same light with her, but can’t wait to share our different lights together. She is, of course, my light. I am broken without her.

kirstin

(all these images have been taken within the last week with my iPhone)