Have I seen it, though, truly? Has this brilliance, fascinating as it is, struck my eye with such infinite poetry before? It must have, for this humming in my soul, this sudden contentment with the glint and silence of the light's play seems familiar somehow.
The sidewalks are slick; I walk on snow-covered grass and feel the sharp bite of the frozen air on my nose and my ears. Meeta is leaving; she has a long drive ahead of her, and she's already taken today's exam. It's not easy, she tells me. It doesn't matter. The worry and the fear and the driving frustration are as frozen as the morning, lost and far away. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters for these few moments but the stillness that surrounds me, leaching into my bones and cooling my blood, the crunch of feet on ice-ensheathed blades of glass, the smooth slick reflections of what, yesterday, were puddles on the pavement.
It is a moment, frozen, a moment to be remembered and embraced, sharp and still and cold as the coming winter. It is time; it is now.