Brandy Lien Worrall-Soriano

During Shavasana, I usually have an eye pillow to black out the whiteness of the skylight. Today, I lie in light. My mind wanders, as expected, so I think, I can still see with my eyes closed. I still see the lightness, and if some crows were to collect on the skylight, I would see shadows hopping on my eyelids. I fly with the light, eyelids and lashes like butterfly wings. The point is, I can still see. When Dad was lying unmoving on the hospital bed, eyelids hanging like blinds three-quarter closed, I wondered if he saw lightness, darkness, or any of the shades in between when Mom, Sis, or I walked over, stood over him to wipe his forehead, dab his lips with the moistened pink foam lollipop, or whisper love into his ear. If he saw light, did it change to black when he died, or did it become so much brighter so that he kept flying higher, the morphine still making its way through the slowing flow and eventual stillness of the blood in his veins. I just want to know what he saw so I can try to see it too, so I can tell myself that whatever it was, lightness or darkness, it wasn’t nothing. Lightness and darkness, nothing is something. I open my eyes and quickly shut them again. I see a constellation of artifacts, moving circles, crawling worms, and my flying through light becomes a mysterious collage. I watch light and dark dance across my horizon, never out of sight.