The Nearest Light
hen I was a kid, the nearest light I could see from my own house was a quarter-mile away. Sally and Doug lived there. I knew their daughter, Julie. The next nearest light was more than a mile away, but I could see it across the fields that grew wheat and milo, depending on the time of year. I didn’t know them.
I’m not sure how it started. The dream of living somewhere else. It seems like it’s always been there. I had no idea how I was going to live in the city. Buildings and skyscrapers and busy sidewalks, subways and restaurants; I lived in the middle of nowhere. I had no business in the city. I had no business being surrounded by light.
And I’m still not sure how I got here. Standing on a sidewalk snapping the streets I dreamed about when I was a child. It’s not quite how I imagined it to be. I still carry the expanse of Kansas with me. Inside my head, there is nothing between us but empty countryside a mile in each direction. And maybe you can feel it, the distance. It’s ok. I don’t know how else to live.
But I can see your light. And I’m drawn to it. To what it means, to who you are, to what the future holds.
Let’s talk about light.