Yellow Day

The choice was between isolation or solitude. Was I left behind, or did I choose to spend time on my own? There are two images.

In the first, I’m standing by the bus, looking up at the windows, unable to distinguish him through the darkened glass. I lift my hand tentatively, but I don’t know, will never know, whether the gesture is noticed or whether anyone has responded. My uncertainty is written in my expression. This was a choice, really it was. I could have been on the bus. I could have been laughing, checking my belongings, jostling for the seat at the back. The cost of going was not solely financial, though. There was a point to make. A point about time given, time taken, space. A gift of space. The image concludes with a sigh, a straightening of shoulders, a turning away.

There’s a second image, though. It’s the same day. I’m walking briskly along a country road. My forehead is furrowed to start, but gradually, it is smoothed by the almost shocking brightness of the day, the remarkably temperate breeze, the unfamiliar silence. My pace slows and adjusts to the lack of need to be anywhere. A destination exists but has lost its importance. No one, no one anywhere knows where I am, and I stop to make lowing sounds at a single cow in a meadow of wildflowers. She seems to have the right idea, and appears to be inviting me to participate in her appreciation of the day. So I do. I step over the single strand of fence wire, and find my own space… there is no need to interfere with her enjoyment. There is more than enough room for both of us. I lie on my back, examine carelessly the slowly drifting clouds, and make wildflower-angels, my arms and legs akimbo, describing arcs in the fragile plants towering over me. I laugh aloud, and know that this kind of being alone is a choice, not a fall-back position. It is rare, and beautiful, and to be cherished.