I noticed her standing by the window when I woke up.
Ethereal, bathed in the moonlight streaming through the open window.
Her back to me, all I could see was her outline silhouetted against the light.
Only ever a silhouette.
Expressionless, wordless, free from responsibility or expectation.
A blank canvas, with the freedom to give nothing away.
I had noticed it before. Sitting across from me on a table. Beside me in the car. A trick of the light, something you saw out of the corner of your eye and turned to look at.
If you turned your head too quickly, it was gone.
Only ever an outline.
And what right had I to expect more? What right have any of us to demand more? To inhibit the elusive freedom which comes from mystery, from outline, from silence?
What right have we to join the dots of someone else picture? To fill in the crude outline with our own interpretation of the image? Would you draw on the Mona Lisa because you didn’t like her smile?
What right have we to demand answers from a soul unwilling to give their secrets up? To scratch our own itch, to satiate our own curiosity? Would you rave at the priest for not giving up the deepest secrets of their faith? For explaining in black and white the essence of their very core?
Sometimes all we get is a silhouette.
When I woke up in the morning, she was gone. As I knew she would be. A visit in the moonlight, brief, fleeting, yet eternal.
I did see her once more in my life, silhouetted against the sunset on a hilltop. This time, she half turned. Was it a smile? It was impossible to tell. The whole truth was still denied to me. I had no way of knowing the intricacies and mysteries which hang in the air around me, thick like smoke. Despite myself, I smiled.
Sometimes, all we get is a silhouette.
And sometimes that has to be enough.
This was a post inspired by the Daily Prompt: Silhouette