She wore violet stockings
For her trip to the window,
It was the second time this second
She had parted the soft black curtains
With one hand,
Bending the blinds with the other.
Nobody is ever outside, here. Everybody here is tired.
This girl had spent her life just getting ready.
Ready to escape, and escape with an education.
There would be an awakening, for her, she knew,
And she hoped as much for her family.
But how could she justify her expectations?
With hopeful eyes, doubt is scattered away.
Distraction would be nice.
Studying every day.
Following patterns, uncovering the unknown,
In small ways.
Wondering lately about her place in time, or history, and
What she was supposed to be doing, if anything at all.
Settling into the office chair beside her computer desk,
She sees the pink envelope, tucked under the keyboard.
Remembering the night before, remembering his face,
There’s a tremor of helpless anger that swells in her stomach,
And slowly billows upward, to be released as a pitiful sigh.
Her tongue turns bitter, behind her bottom lip.
There was kindness within him.
There was a peace and a happiness, and he wasn’t tired.
Everybody in that town was exhausted. Spent. She felt herself finally not caring anymore,
And that was when she knew it was coming; The fatigue. The weariness.
She didn’t want to sleep life away, like her neighbors.
He spoke to her. He said he would come.
The book on her lap reads “Los Códices.“
The letter in her left hand reads
“Most High, Most High…”
Could there have been a time,
That these two words, thick with love,
Were heard aloud, rather than read in silent sadness?
Maybe a time they were carried across miles, on a gust of inspired breath,
Given over and over again for the Beloved, for the Patient.
“Él vino en busca de mi,”
“Él vino en busca de mi.”
Eyes closed, forehead to the computer desk,
Legs folded into the office chair,
She peels the golden seal from the envelope.
Peeking under the table to carefully interpret this new codex,
She stops. She stands. She laughs.
A textbook hits the desk, “Biología”.
Criss-cross their way to
An ancient bookshelf, where a folded, pink letter
Slides deep between the pages of a Medical Journal.
And time still passes in that place, like it does anywhere else.
And reality still drifts further from that moment
With every second that passes
In an ivy-covered house, in