When feelings die and… tea


Her hair open to the wind. She stands on the top of the stairs. Strands of gold cover her face. She pushes them away. She looks into the night settling down in the neighboring gardens. The moon caught in her eyes, they sparkle. She feels ridiculous in her big dress, stranded; stranded from running wildly in the night. A tigress caught up in a swan. She is aware of her splendor though. She looks magnificent. And it’s not just me thinking that, everyone at the party did. She touches the pearls around her neck. She let slip the slightest of smiles, then promptly regains her countenance. She gathers the folds of her dress, and slowly makes her way down the stairs. Behind she left a dinner. A party. Music. Laughter. Chatter. Life?

Behind, she left life.


She crosses the garden to the gazebo. She holds her head high, wipes her cheek with the back of her gloved hand, and asks me if I minded her joining me for some tea. I nod. She sits down. She holds my hand, leans her head on my shoulder, and sighs. With her sigh, the evening dissolves away. The guests. The glamour. The music. The laughter. The valse seeps through the garden like foreign notes suspended in the air. She pulls her shawl tighter around her shoulders. I slide my hand behind her back and pull her closer to my heart. She sobs silently in the dark. I wipe her tears. She looks up at me and says:

“Wouldn’t you take me home now?”


My parents died last summer… and all I have is her weary voice pleading to return, an immeasurable feeling of freedom, and my hand pulling away. Once again I drift toward a new life with dead excitement but alert eyes eager to devour pleasures… and life.

… and life?


She, who once was running fields barefoot, who once told me that life is never to be eaten slowly, once again leaves a single shoe at another party… an immigrant Cinderella… trailing shoes all around.

… and no one finds them… here.