On the cedar chest in my living room I have a glass orange, a souvenir from Ft. Lauderdale, Florida. At this time of year and at a certain hour of the morning, the sun comes in at just the right angle and illuminates the orange so that it shines like some brave, small planet. Henry (as you can see in the photo) is oblivious to the lighted orange’s charms. But I make a point of stopping what I am doing. I stand and admire the orange. I feel like some secret will be revealed to me if I am quiet enough; if I don’t look away. Maybe the secret is just this: that even the smallest, most ordinary objects can transform themselves and become suddenly incandescent.

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