Where the Sunlight Stayed

As the day ripened, I sat by the window and took a sip of coffee. A lukewarm smell seeping from somewhere in the kitchen mixed with the sound of light moving slowly, and the day passed quietly. On an afternoon when a tiredness much like yesterday's wrapped around my shoulders, a crumb of bread on the floor suddenly caught the sun and glinted. It was nothing much, but that glint sat me back down in my place, as if nothing had happened. What needed doing had piled up neatly, and there were still things left to say. But I paused and watched that light a little longer. Outside the speed the world urges on, I slowly caught my breath. When half the day had passed that way, I found that today, neither hasty nor slow, had flowed at a pace of my own. Before evening comes, it's enough to remember only the place where the sunlight stayed.