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Paperback
First published September 1, 2012
Light from these highest windows pull my eyes up and up and up. Stories above the nave, vaults curve like whale's ribs. I half expect them to expand with an intake of breath. How could someplace so old seem so alive? Every last stone in this place was cut by hand, making the not-quite-perfect surfaces seem like they could touch you back.
A third page [sketch] calls for new colors: walnut, oak and faded shades of dust. Musty odors skitter from my pencil tips as I sketch the day of scattering, when shlumpy strangers picked through our stuff. Their eyes shine with delight at our tired piles. Then I draw her - me, the water-faced girl full of whys - tiptoeing through every emptying room of the vast brownstone, grasping after each scratched and dented treasure. Dusty father shakes his head. Starched, white mother gives a hug, crisp and fresh. These loved, leaden things can't be carried, they say. The cost would be too great, far more than the junk is worth. A tumble of blue, like a final wave goodbye, splatters from my pencils onto paper. Tears from the old me trickle into a clear cup of truth for the new.
Something in my mind, like an eye behind my eye, sees angel shapes in shadows of our lamp-lit street. As I feel for the pencil in my pocket, I know it's the Dad part of me at last seeing glints of the divine.