One single flake of snow descends into our gaze. An image transpires of a younger, older girl. Across the snow white terrain, we see her. She is standing at the edge. On the brink of… Something pulls her forward, to cross the threshold. Something pulls her back.
Beside her, on the ground, in the snow, in a heap, a doll is carelessly cast aside. A tender memoir. Remains of a day; like a curtain called.
Part of her longs to cross this threshold... to move and shake and feel and forget. To blow out her candles one last time. And then, to evolve.
To become.
A question manifests. Will you go?
Hissing cool breath to her apple cheeks. She cannot run or stay or leave. She stands on the precipice and howls at the moon; into a canyon showing no signs of life... and no answers.
But...
a thin crooked line is drawn in the canyon floor. Her pupils tighten. It is moving, rushing.
The crooked line...
...a crooked river.
Calling her. Tempting her. Enticing the juvenile tributary raging in her own breast.
She bends an ear as the wind carries an ancient message, dependent on its own survival. “Join me. Take a step; rush your death. Come in to the raging waters. Take your place in the river."
A breeze encircles her head, her angel soul. Blows in one ear, coaxing an answer from her lips. Her eyes rest inside her. Her lips begin to part. And all of life listens, as she whispers one final youth breath...
“Farewell.”
5 comments:
Awesome. You are a fantastic writer. I am assuming that's your work.
Thank Jen. Love ya... The pic is NOT mine ;)
Wow... powerful. But is it about the death of youth/innocence... figuratively? Or an actual death? I'm curious.
BTW... my name was listed as "Wise Voter" but it's not anymore. This is Lorena.
Lorena/Wise Voter/ReynieLane,
It is about crossing thresholds in our lives... ya know... a death to a part of us that we'll never regain (we get married, never to be single again - we have kids... another threshold... they grow up...another one) all those thresholds... something so sad about them, yet they are inevitable for us to grow, move on, etc.
The Norman Rockwell captures it completely - doll cast aside, starign at a picture of a movie star in a magazing, becoming a woman, saying goodbye to her childhood.
That's it.
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