Another ineffable moment, and I pause, my hand outstretched for the little mandarin orange. Was it the image of the orange that had caused such an indescribable feeling to bloom? But the moment has passed, and I am left with only a lingering peace. No explanations.

I cannot describe the feeling, but it comes to me at the simplest of times. And yet, here I am, attempting to describe it. It's what I do as a writer. I try to capture the moments that would otherwise slip into oblivion. And when I capture them, they are mine to hold close. They are the end of an adventure for me, and the beginning of one for the reader.

I retract my arm and close my eyes. I can only let out a few words.

A sunny window sill in an open house, I stand with my small bare feet upon the hardwood floor. The light blue curtains wave in the breeze that breathes into the airy room, and I climb to the sill. Bare arms against the sill, I look out into the beautiful world; I am a young child, and the world is larger than life.

I open my eyes. The feelings come as if they were entire memories summed up in a single sensation. But who's memories are they? I do not know of any houses like the one I have just described. I do not remember any sunny window sills quite like the one I have just discovered in my mind.

I shrug, and eat the orange.

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