The Truth

Every time I use my language, I tell the truth. A cat in a white collar, like a priest with calico fur, walks across the dead grass of the yard, and out through the white fence. The sun’s strong, but the colors of the lawn were washed out by the winter, not the light. February. Stained glass window of the house next door takes the sun’s full brunt. It must look spectacular to the neighbor in my head, a white-haired woman with an air of dignity and grace, who through pools of the intensest colors climbs the flight of stairs. I’ve never seen it, but I know it’s there.