Apr 2013
She would frown on me if I centered this on a mirror. Her eyes would squint slightly just as they do when she smiles. So I won’t center this on a mirror.
She would call my attention to how clichéd a mirror would be. We all look into mirrors. Into their depths, they are shallow. You cannot wade into their reflections, waist deep in yourself.
We all look into mirrors, we think them deep. She sees the distorted puddles, not the oceans. She can see, unlike most. So I won’t center this on a mirror.
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I’ll give her a map to the sea. Stagnant waters hung in bathrooms glint at her eyes, they squint. Just as they do when she smiles. It’s hard for her to find the sea. So I take her hand, and in it place the map to the sea.
I put my hands around hers and I unroll it for her. She’s too frightened to do it on her own. I tell her to keep her eyes on the map. Her chin tilts downwards as her eyelids widen in time with her pupils. I can’t see her green-grey irises, but I know they’re open.
I lead her down the road. She calls out bends and forks to me, as I’ve never been to the sea before. I have my own lake tucked away.
She begins to walk on her own.
I think she smells the salt. She’s still staring down at the map, but her eyes squinted. I think she’s smiling. I cannot tell, my gaze is back on the road. But I see light slitting through oak. The ground is not firm. Grass grows sparsely in the sandy soil, too loose for its liking. She smiles as our feet shift in it, I know she’s smiling this time.
I put my hands over hers and roll up the map.
I ask her if she is ready for herself.
She nods gently. I ask her to lift up her head, and her eyes squint at the sun, at the sea. Collinear circles drift across her eyes as they adjust to the lighting here at the sea, but she’s smiling.
I let go of her hand and tell her that this is her sea. She must feel it herself. She turns to me with full irises, she knows she is ready. But she is afraid.
She’s still standing on her beach. She moves closer to the water’s edge every day, but she peaks over her shoulder at me every now and again. I haven’t moved. I won’t let her leave her beach now that she’s here.
This is her sea. This is her mirror.
She will look into it soon enough. She will wade into the sea, waist deep in herself. She will feel the ebb of it draw her inwards, the shoal will slip from under her feet. But she can swim. Swimming is the easy part. She will rise to the surface, and when she opens her eyes, green-grey irises flushed, she will take one last look at shore, and turn her gaze to her own horizon. It is hers. Beautiful, expansive, resilient, undeniable.
She will gaze upon herself. Beautiful, expansive, resilient, undeniable.
She would call my attention to how clichéd a mirror would be. We all look into mirrors. Into their depths, they are shallow. You cannot wade into their reflections, waist deep in yourself.
We all look into mirrors, we think them deep. She sees the distorted puddles, not the oceans. She can see, unlike most. So I won’t center this on a mirror.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I’ll give her a map to the sea. Stagnant waters hung in bathrooms glint at her eyes, they squint. Just as they do when she smiles. It’s hard for her to find the sea. So I take her hand, and in it place the map to the sea.
I put my hands around hers and I unroll it for her. She’s too frightened to do it on her own. I tell her to keep her eyes on the map. Her chin tilts downwards as her eyelids widen in time with her pupils. I can’t see her green-grey irises, but I know they’re open.
I lead her down the road. She calls out bends and forks to me, as I’ve never been to the sea before. I have my own lake tucked away.
She begins to walk on her own.
I think she smells the salt. She’s still staring down at the map, but her eyes squinted. I think she’s smiling. I cannot tell, my gaze is back on the road. But I see light slitting through oak. The ground is not firm. Grass grows sparsely in the sandy soil, too loose for its liking. She smiles as our feet shift in it, I know she’s smiling this time.
I put my hands over hers and roll up the map.
I ask her if she is ready for herself.
She nods gently. I ask her to lift up her head, and her eyes squint at the sun, at the sea. Collinear circles drift across her eyes as they adjust to the lighting here at the sea, but she’s smiling.
I let go of her hand and tell her that this is her sea. She must feel it herself. She turns to me with full irises, she knows she is ready. But she is afraid.
She’s still standing on her beach. She moves closer to the water’s edge every day, but she peaks over her shoulder at me every now and again. I haven’t moved. I won’t let her leave her beach now that she’s here.
This is her sea. This is her mirror.
She will look into it soon enough. She will wade into the sea, waist deep in herself. She will feel the ebb of it draw her inwards, the shoal will slip from under her feet. But she can swim. Swimming is the easy part. She will rise to the surface, and when she opens her eyes, green-grey irises flushed, she will take one last look at shore, and turn her gaze to her own horizon. It is hers. Beautiful, expansive, resilient, undeniable.
She will gaze upon herself. Beautiful, expansive, resilient, undeniable.
