11.11

"The quality," I whisper, "of light--"
"You talk about light a lot, did you know that?"
"It's what I see with."
"Not your eyes?"
"You know what I mean." But maybe not. I stretch again, trying to see over the distant treetops to where the crest of the hills fades out into an indistinct blue line.
"What exactly are you trying to see?"
"Look over there," I say, quieter still, and pointing at the edge of sight.
"What am I looking for?"
"See how the edge of it is so distinct? You'd never see that on a wetter day."
"It's dry? You mean the air?"
"And cold."
"You mean the light?
"Yes."
"So what exactly are you trying to see?"
"Everything."