Copyright © 2012 by Jennifer York
All Rights Reserved.
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In the garden arbor, there was a vine with tender, fragile blue flowers that curled up over a lattice. She used to sit there, in patent leather shoes and a simple smock dress, dark hair in braids that were laid flat to her scalp. In her lap, she had a storybook her aunt had given her, detailing all the nights of Scheherazade. All the illustrations were done in red and black. If she closed her eyes, she converted these drawings to full scale canvases. It was only, ever, a matter of reaching far enough in. She liked to imagine she was lost in the midst of an unfriendly landscape…she was alone on the moors, or she was lost in a desert, where the sandy ground shifted from one moment to the next. At every second, her life might be taken from her, unless she spotted a shelter. She was always in the midst of a desperate conflict that took all of her. Sometimes she lost track of time, and was startled out of her meditations. “And what are you doing?” Someone would ask, confused to find her sitting with her eyes closed, (or not closed, staring at a spot in the distance). They did not understand. She could not very well say, “I am seeing how far down I go. I want to get to the bottom.”