Secrets buried beneath sandy eyelids.

I remember soft light through a window—it looked like the purple-yellow of an insect’s wing. It was a mysterious, murky light. I remember soft feet, I remember hiding up high in a tree,  waking up feeling heavy with the dampness of not-quite-dawn and the gravity of some lost fragment of thought. Secrets, buried beneath sandy eyelids. Cold toes on the wooden ladder. A split second fear before flipping on the bathroom light switch, perhaps of seeing something unexpected in my own pale face, reflected in the oval bathroom mirror.