Trapped within the confines of that faux-onyx picture frame, her smiling face still loves you. You can see it in the creases of her eyes, the upturned plum slices of her lips. There is a light in that photograph that calls up past-lives and summer picnics that rainstorms couldn’t end. In that 4×6 goal, there is nothing resembling what she has become.
Where once was laughter now resides a chaste and unfeeling silences. This is not the reverence of the wake, nor is it the quiet of close and shared company. This is a calm and calculated hush before the tempest stirs the ocean of words unsaid into a frenzy of hate and remorse. She is like the unknowable will of the Kosmos to you, and you can little more stop the turning of the moon than you can prevent her collapse.
She, the idol of your dreaming, is verging on collapse and all you can do is look at used-to-be’s and dream up fruitless might-have-been’s.
You study her eyes in that photograph, looking for a pathway back to the simple happiness of those brief three years. Her twin brown eyes are endless pools of velvet-dark and you dive heedlessly into them.
You float in the murky water and find yourself alone. You feel motionless but you bob along the soft, rippling surface. In the distance is the sound of tiny glass beads, tinkling in the gloom. You strain to see, but there is no movement around you.
You pull yourself sideways through the water, and it becomes harder to move the closer you come to the ruddy, rocky shore. Slow rolling dunes are in constant sloping motion and you find yourself struggling up through the sand. You make your way with some considerable effort and are left breathless at the peak of the slippery pile of black, singing sand.
All before you is the dark abyss of her pupil. It is so rich and black you can’t even name the colour. It is nothing. Rather, it is . To describe it would be to manifest it as something that it cannot be.
The sound here is louder now, a waterfall of crystals cascading down into her pupil. The sands seem to rain forever. Crystalline song cascades down from all points on the horizon. You are awestruck at the majesty of this perfect music. Your heart swells in your chest, applying uncomfortable pressure to your ribcage that you smile to spite. Here, on the precipice of your goddess’ eye, you are caught up in the realization that noting, no matter how much, or how beautiful, or how horrid, Nothing can engulf love. Before you realize, too, that can also take its share, a midi on your cellphone shakes you from the picture frame.
It’s mom again.