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Feb. 4th, 2013 12:35 am"Each basement and attic, every night window, all winter shadows let into that wood which never ends. In the very middle of that endless wood, hence anywhere, one finds the pool. It is really just a puddle. Just a footprint of the giant made of rain. Only the young, the brave, the purified will see it in its proper light. Will see it as a step, going down around a bend. Into another meadow in another endless wood. Out of which one walks into lamplight circles, blazing midnight station bars, sunlit beaches under cliffs. A world just like our own, that is our own, but for one change."
She heard this chant with patience and a free of content smile, believing not a word of course, and left. Her niece with the book wouldn't understand where she was going, but someday she would. Her bag would look quite different, a future sack or box or other thing, but it too would contain coins, keys, receipts, a comb, a broken chain, small scissors, lotion, drops, two crumpled tens, a subway map, stray pills, some mints, a smaller bag, a pocket sealed with melted candy, plastic keys to tryst rooms, lists of things to buy, an unpaid bill, a doctor's card in case it started happening again, a piece of green glass from a longago walk, a journal full of lists of planned revenges, some idea scraps on post-its, an electric cigarette, three pens, two caps, the wrapper from a kleenex package, wads of kleenex, some used, some not, an aspirin bottle, a razor (no blade), a plastic spoon, a plastic piece to discourage grinding of teeth during sleep, an accordion wallet, a sunglasses lens, a nail file, earring backs, a drawing of a farmhouse that another niece had made, a tape measure, tampons, lipstick and a phone. She would know that if one didn't look just so the love would go away, didn't do just right the money would all dry up, the friends would see better friends across the road and wave goodbye, that if she didn't get to the bank by six she'd have no place to live. They'd put her in a special van and take her to the desert. They'd make her dig a hole and climb inside. The dirt would fall and cover her. She'd live like that forever.
She heard this chant with patience and a free of content smile, believing not a word of course, and left. Her niece with the book wouldn't understand where she was going, but someday she would. Her bag would look quite different, a future sack or box or other thing, but it too would contain coins, keys, receipts, a comb, a broken chain, small scissors, lotion, drops, two crumpled tens, a subway map, stray pills, some mints, a smaller bag, a pocket sealed with melted candy, plastic keys to tryst rooms, lists of things to buy, an unpaid bill, a doctor's card in case it started happening again, a piece of green glass from a longago walk, a journal full of lists of planned revenges, some idea scraps on post-its, an electric cigarette, three pens, two caps, the wrapper from a kleenex package, wads of kleenex, some used, some not, an aspirin bottle, a razor (no blade), a plastic spoon, a plastic piece to discourage grinding of teeth during sleep, an accordion wallet, a sunglasses lens, a nail file, earring backs, a drawing of a farmhouse that another niece had made, a tape measure, tampons, lipstick and a phone. She would know that if one didn't look just so the love would go away, didn't do just right the money would all dry up, the friends would see better friends across the road and wave goodbye, that if she didn't get to the bank by six she'd have no place to live. They'd put her in a special van and take her to the desert. They'd make her dig a hole and climb inside. The dirt would fall and cover her. She'd live like that forever.
