The room is decrepit, the skeleton of what it once was. The walls are crumbling, charred marks running from the ceiling to floor, sheetrock gaping from its burned innards. The floor is covered in a thin sheet of shattered glass which catches the faint light, and there is a fragility to this light so that it could not be called real illumination. The wall is a marred mirror opposite the ruin of the staircase, and in its warped contours an image lingers in perfect clarity: a girl with flaxen hair tucked behind her ears, balanced on her toes, holding her arms both backward and forward with a still precision countered only by the stillness of the room, melting into sateen that discloses the grace of her lithe figure.
She sits in the rubble and watches her own reflection from her wheelchair.
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ReplyDeleteHe makes the trek through the golden valley of reeds, glancing through the thin lens. Scouring the dark earth, he brushes past the bushes in pursuit of the lost possession. Rays of soft yellow sun beat down, bathing the land in their perfect glow. The dust-covered trail leads through the mountains as his eyes dart frantically, combing the ground.
ReplyDeleteA moment of fear grasps him as his palm lands forcefully on the bark of a decaying tree, trying to steady and calm himself. Sinking to the ground, bending his legs, he begins to close his eyes. Light evaporates for the moment and the darkness embraces him. Silent, alone. The breaths begin again, slow and rhythmic. He rises, eyes wide and clear.
A far-off glint beckons him, guiding him to the resting place of the glasses. Gently dusting them off, he dons a quiet smile. The picture flickers for a moment. Two pieces of plastic become immortalized, their souls reunited against the gold background. A miracle of life, the recollection of memories. Staring through the lens. The depth of a moment.