The Sun Arrived One Second Too Soon

More about The Sun Arrived One Second Too Soon

She wanted to stay in the final second of sleep.

Everything she had lost was there, and none of it seemed particularly lost.

Her mother lived in the wall above a pot of purple flowers. A boat drifted through the room carrying three people who had never needed to explain themselves. In the corner, a woman in a pointed hat searched for Thursday beneath the furniture.

She set out three teacups.

In that last second, there was always enough time for tea.

Her mother had died years ago, but here she was concerned about a small chip in one of the cups.

“Turn it toward the wall,” she said. “Nobody will notice.”

Her daughter turned it toward her.

They both laughed.

But the sun had started coming through.

At first it was only a pale place on the plaster. She covered it with her hand. The light appeared between her fingers, making them look like five small departures.

“Perhaps if we’re quiet,” she said.

The woman in the pointed hat stopped searching. The boat held still. Even the flowers made an effort.

Outside the dream, someone drove a truck past her bedroom. The engine entered the room as a distant animal. One of the boat passengers looked over the side.

“We should go,” he said.

“Your tea isn’t ready.”

“It never is.”

The sun widened the pale place.

Now she could feel the sheet against her ankle. There was a pillow somewhere, patiently expecting her head. Her waking life had assembled itself around the bed: slippers, unpaid bill, a glass of water with yesterday at the bottom.

She picked up her mother’s cup.

“Take this,” she said.

Her mother tried, but her hands were still inside the wall.

For a moment the cup rested between them.

Then there was morning.

She lay with her eyes closed, holding nothing very carefully.

When she finally opened them, the sun was on the floor.

It had found her slippers.