Fleur de Lis by Robert Reid, ca. 1895–1900. Oil on canvas.

Morning Becomes Her

A dancing metallic sign read:

“Let the cracks lead you to what’s been lost

It rattled out in in the lonely terrace. It sang along with the blue wind chime and echoed the murmurs of the distant waves. The movements of the metal tubes and bells of the chime danced and swirled and soared up to heaven, forming circles of lust, swirling in aerial confusions.

Every object in the alice-blue terrace seemed to exist in complete harmony. Where a wooden swinging chair ended, a navy-blue pot extended with its branching Lobelia. Shades of purple, relentlessly, clang to the walls and aimed high. Everything formed a continuum of blue beauty, of violet passionate embraces, of subtle oneness.

They all existed as a single thought in her mind. She never thought of them separately. Everything in its right place. She caressed the windowpane from which she had been watching the sleeping world. She did not want it to wake up. She put her ear on the cold surface of the windowpane, closed her eyes, and attentively listened. She sank and raveled in the stillness, wandered beyond what is seen, shifted into something else, voyaged out.

She floated in the silence and her nymphet-like silhouette danced in the air indolently; unctuously moving her thighs and arms into bewitching signs and circles to a celestial tune playing in the background of her life. The room is taken with the fragrance of forgetfulness. In and out she breathed, up and down her chest traveled, out and beyond her mind was set, then down and down she succumbed as the sunbeams started to sneak in. They pierced savagely the walls, burning every hope of invisibility or absence, hurling in with no excuse nor permission to invade the silence of her private world.

On her feet, the girl leaped and made a few steps reaching the wall; she gently put her body on it and traced a crack that ended near the door. She pressed her lips on its end and whispered: “I hope you are watching.”

She opened the door and her footsteps pressed lightly on the wooden ground, bare feet , she stopped at the threshold. Ten pale shy toes rested peacefully before the wooden swinging chair. Two long and soft legs stretched and announced the sprouting of a translucent corset from which branched two marbled arms that happily ended in metamorphic hands of a Goddess. One hand threw the honeyed curls behind the tired shoulders and the other settled a warm mug of black nectar on a patio stand.

The surface of the coffee was a tepid heterocosm scented with the fragrance of lonely nights and jazzy tunes. A vapor was born, extended, worn out, and faded like everything else beyond that alice-blue terrace. She beheld the world from her swinging chair. The fresh pastel-blue dawn washed the garden lightly, pressing on each petal gently, waking every creature, leaving drops of mythic dew behind. The honeyed dew was forming a translucent fog obscuring what existed beyond the garden. She came out everyday to attend this silent fest of nature at her door, breath in the stillness, and wallow in a worldly purity that no one dared to believe existed.