WHAT IF

WHAT IF A film of grime, not on the glass, but on the seeing. The scrim of want, of fear, of expectation's dust. We squint through it, shaping the world we’ve built brick by weary brick. We see shadows dancing, casting fleeting ghosts on the ground, not the source of the light. But what if doors were swept clean, scraped raw, polished by the wind of truth? Would we tremble? The ordinary, no longer dimmed, now blazing. The mundane, now magnificent, each grain of sand a universe. The sparrow, a feathered sun, its wings brushing the sky. The chipped teacup, not flawed, but a testament to time, a vessel brimming with stories. The cracked pavement, not ugliness, but a testimonial to endurance and change. The wrinkled, aged face in the mirror not imperfect or decayed, but a landscape of lived experience. No veil of meaning imposed, just being. Just is. Would we be blinded by the sheer, unadulterated presence of everything? Or finally, truly, see? © 2025by Sara Etgen-Baker Published at Woodside Review, July 2025