Miss Samantha Lee Willersby was considering the soap bubbles through the streaming light of her kitchen window.
A soap bubble is a perfect and magical event. It is present for only an instant, the colors swirling in a complex and constantly changing dance. Like snowflakes or human beings, no two bubbles are alike. Bubbles are also like human beings because they live such very short but explosive lives. You can tell the ones unwilling to pop because they stick to things, like fingers or faucets, and refuse to run their normal course. But you know the truth: the bubble’s time has come. There is no funeral gong to announce the end of a soap bubble. No mournful choir. But it doesn’t matter, because the careful observer realizes that the soap bubble is the visual equivalent to a symphony, and celebrates its short life accordingly.
Samantha had wet her fingers to better play with the soap bubbles. She bounced them throughout the plain, white kitchen. She blew two of them together, where they joined and popped, dancing out their own tragic love affair. As Samantha waved her wand, a very large bubble contorted itself into existence. It engulfed the smaller bubbles in its billowing wake. It finally settled, content, on the kitchen table, where it refused to pop for almost an hour, though Samantha did her best to pop it. Samantha’s favorite pattern was when a bunch of tiny bubbles all floated together, until they popped suddenly, all at once. She liked to think they were such good friends they were unable to live without each other.
Samantha spent the better part of the afternoon filling the kitchen with bubbles. Finally the sun set. Samantha gazed, enraptured, at the pinks and oranges of the setting sun filtered through the hundred of bubbles in her small kitchen. They swirled everywhere, creating a beautiful kaleidoscope of color so loud and vibrant it filtered though all of her senses, so that she could taste, smell, and hear the beauty as well as see it. In the years to come, when Samantha learned of the wonder of photography, she longed to transcend time and return to that kitchen, but she could never recreate the moment perfectly. Such beauty is transitory, evanescent, and not unlike a soap bubble.