At this curious time of day as the sun moves on my right towards its gradual setting in the west, slanted rays splash my reflection through the window panes in front of me. In the light just past the glass another dimension opens. I can look right through its shallow image to the familiar yard and the kitchen in our house beyond.

The outline of my face lies caught between the sunlight and my ability to focus on it. Certain of my own presence in spite of this trick of light, I am certain too of Hertha, Bena and Charlotte, Auguste, Johanna and Mrs. Killian whose lives continue to elude me.

The closer I look into their long ago space, the more I can make out until the slightest movement of light changes the angle of my gaze. Then, blinded by the persistent images of a world more easily recognizable, I’ve lost them again.

How close to stand?  How far?  How much to focus and how much to leave to chance?  These heady calculations keep me perched on just the edge of total recognition.  I remain still in their certain presence.  Imagining  myself in line with the precise angle of space and time and light which will open up their world and allow me in.