cbeesound
You pass this tennis court every day, and it’s never been much to look at. Neglected and abused, the net sags like a wet paper bag, dandelions push through the cracks at the brick wall, and a bald yellow ball is forever wedged in the chain link fence. Day after day, the court just sits there, craving attention but lacking a voice, while all around, the city makes its own terrible racket.
But today, on your way home, something is different. A cool rain has fallen on this warm night, and now a feathery light has worked its magic — lifting the net, painting the lines, strategically dodging and burning, taking care not to trample on the dandelions, which, like the court itself, are deserving of some kindness.
Mesmerized, you look around for the source of this magic. Streetlamps raise their heads above the fog. Faded moonlight filters through the trees. And some kids sweep a torch across the court, moving it up and down and over until it lands on the ball in the chain link fence.
When a cloud covers the moon and the streetlamps bow their heads, the kids grab the ball and run away, leaving you in the dark. And you know that the light is everything.
You pass this court every day, but you’ve never really seen it until now.
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