What the Light Knows

The first time it happened, my father had been dead for one week. My mother and I were in the Smoky Mountains in Tennessee, in April, trying to do something with ourselves. We were walking an overlook with long views across the ridgelines when something appeared in the air in front of us. Not in a photograph. Not on a screen. In the air. A shaft of colored light — blues and greens — moving as we moved, present in a way that had no business being there on a clear afternoon with no rain, no prism,