minimalism

The night was dark. 

Thick clouds blew in from the sea and covered the moon and the stars until no light came from the sky. 

"The night is so dark. I can’t see," he thought. "Where is the light?"

Gabby lay beside him. 

He couldn't see her. 

He could only feel beside him.

“Gabby is a light. I can’t see that light, but I can feel it."

The old priest's words stayed in his mind. 

He couldn’t see them. 

He could only hear them moving around and around in rhythm or counterpoint with his own thoughts.

"Father Gustavo's words are a light. I can’t see that light, but I can hear it."

The flowers from the doctor's garden sat on the table beside the bed. 

He could smell their sweet smell.

"The doctor's kindness is a light. I can’t see that light, but I can smell it."

The supper from the teacher's home gurgled in his stomach. 

The simple meal was a feast for him, for Gabby, and for the poor neighbors who joined them around the table in the small house in the city center. 

"The teacher's meal is a light. I can’t see that light, but I can taste it."

He couldn't see the light, but the light was there.

- trevor scott barton, stories for a brown-eyed girl, 2020