In the afternoon a shaft of sunlight fell, briefly, across our alley. Sometimes it came feebly, and sometimes not at all, and when it came it could not warm us, but still we would take our handwork out to the back step to await it.
Some days it came in a blaze, and we would turn our faces to it and smile, and believe, for an hour, in a more hopeful world, and talk long into the gathering dusk, our hands idle.
The day that he brought the news he came just as the sun came, and his shadow fell across me as he spoke. He was only the messenger, I know. He did not take my man from me, and yet … he might have tarried just a moment, he might have told me in the gloom.
Instead he stole the joy from the sunshine for me, always.
I have been an erratic presence, but you can rely on VisDare to draw me back. As ever, do follow the link for the photo prompt (as is so very often the case I glanced at it on an inadequate screen, and took away a slightly inaccurate impression), and for the other responses to it