| Magnolia by Priscilla Atkins | ||
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I have come to this room above the sea, room of palest aqua— if there were an aperitif this color, I would sip it between bites of mint and melon, luminous slices of proscuitto ham. Or those rare and costly goose barnacles they served at the restaurant in Cedeira where I ate with J. and M., and we finished off three bottles— one for each of the lives we hoped to save. Here, in my borrowed cocoon, there is book and mirror, windows I can unwind and walk through to a balcony fragrant with damp, white wings. So many options, my evenings grow restless, collections of combs and pearls. I think of M. explaining why she never remarried— there had been other men, but each wanted his own children too, and she knew her son Luis would always be "the other," only the man's blood lineage would be real. J., bare-fingered, smiling wisely, raising her brimming glass (her kind of chemo allowed for moderate intake of alcohol), me, glancing down at my ring while the room slanted and swirled, the waitress fluttering on the rim as she set down three white cups: one blessed blossom for each of us.
PRISCILLA ATKINS'
work has appeared in THE NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW, |
