I feel like sunshine is demanding.
It calls to me,
like a dinner bell
or a melodic and friendly “yoo-hoooo!”
in all it’s cheerfulness,
it’s gentle waiting.
Like I’m missing out by not wanting what it can give me today.
Like when my grandma used tease to me, about a dish I was unwilling to try, “You don’t know what you’re missing, kid.”
And I watched her delight in her cooking, and I grappled inside my eight-year-old mind, torn between the truth and the elusive offering –
I didn’t want to taste fried okra or the peaches doused in milk, I didn’t like them the last time I tasted them, but maybe something is different this time, and am I really missing out?
I’m ready for autumn. For dropping temperatures, cable-knit sweaters, pashminas, and permission to be guiltlessly indoors.
To enjoy sunshine from inside the glass is perfectly acceptable in autumn and winter.
Sunshine, thank you for your gracious offering today.
I just can’t sit near you.
You’re like the girl in study hall who draws hearts to dot her i’s.
Your optimism wears me down.