a way to edge out light

Lea captures light on the palm of her hand. She turns the prism into a puddle in the ocean, the ocean she changes in memory to a day with her family in 1995, the ash of her father's cigarette blowing into her face, sand settling uncomfortably into clumped strands in her drying hair. She had begged for a dog, just for days like this one. Instead, mother had passed around cups filled halfway with golden wine and the sun had broken the line of age with the sand within a bright concentrated point left in the translucent shadow of the glass.

A girl needs to dream of artists hands, and she hopes you will take this in any way you wish to imagine it. It is sometimes more than the multiple meanings implied by a phrase on the page, the word actually taking on all meanings at once within a line of thought. Could this, she wonders, be done with simple sounds as well, say, with the pronunciation of a hard 'c'?

When I have drunk wine with her, Lea has mused uncomfortably often about the time and nature of her death. I often wonder whether to be concerned or enraptured. Instead of deciding, I have chosen to bring her close to my face and at this distance it is impossible to remember anything of the dilemma. More convenient and pleasant to watch her lips. Linger on them. Excuse the sounds as mere precursors. And in this way I am more than such a man. Forgiven only on those occasions that my tongue is rewarded.

But I worry over the taking of light. Closeness requires a squeezing out of illumination so that only an indistinguishable silhouette remains visible. The I of the story replaces the she, and in an attempt to see her, I only end up seeing distortions of myself. Where, pray, has Lea gone off to?

I allowed her to drive away, holding that sunlight in her palm. I will not be among those who only want something from her. I will go with her later to the shelter and help her pick out a dog. And perhaps I'll find myself invited with them to the beach one Sunday, and she may even regale me with a tale of the artist and his skilled hands. How she wishes my hands would remind her of his, but do not.

She is often found there, in that mental place. It is a fantasy, and one I am convinced never had any basis in fact.