chapter four.

"We are all gathered home for the winter," said Evangeline, "Perhaps for the last time. Jericho is preparing for war across the ocean. Helen is learning to fly jets. Charlotte wishes to move to a warm island far away, and I want to go with her. Moriah will continue to study. We are all gathered here, for the first time in a long time. We clash with the hardness of Sarah, our new mother, but we have finally limped home for refuge. My hope is exhausted. I wish to find a crevice and rest. And yet I wonder - will he write? Will he call? We spoke a few days ago, Helen rolled her eyes because I laughed the whole time as I pressed the telephone to my cheek. He weaves gossamer designs in the air and draws me in. One weekend seven months ago he looked at me with love blazing from his eyes and everything was delicate. We walked through the blooming gardens and found a quiet bench and spoke. The sun was too hot and splinters worked through my skirt but I pretended not to notice so that the afternoon would not end. He grinned shyly and dared not hold my gaze. But that passed traceless out of existence like the breezes that had abandoned us. Now I am home. The kettle sings as the water escapes. Jericho is teasing Helen, she cannot stop laughing. Sarah our new mother shuffles past me to remove the metal from the heat - her figure is like a flame, her hands like bricks. I sigh and drift toward the window."

"We are home at last," said Charlotte. "Evangeline stands at her post by the window. Mother readies the tea. The evergreen displays its canes flayed red, the bells hang lightly. Moriah is making lists. Helen and Jericho's laughter forms a wall between us and them. I lift the murmuring teapot from its hot coils and relieve its ocean of a glass. I pour it over crushed flowers; they turn the liquid gold. I find the honeycomb in the sticky plastic box and I peel it open. It languishes seductively between spoon and steam before winding downward into the hot blue mug. I lift the blue with two hands, always with two. The heat penetrates my palms and the steam warms my chin. When I drink flowers my mind unravels contentedly like a cat stretching. When I close my eyes I drift in watery caves on the floor of the sea. I stroke in beats over to the stony walls, no longer pristine. My fingers linger regretfully on the gashes in the stone, the irreparable charring. I can't hear her singing any more, but some crevices still preserve a few echoes like a ballerina in a music box. But I have heard them so many times that I can hum them - and music underwater always sounds like one's own thoughts. I open my eyes. They are blue. I gather myself up and carry her to the piano. I set her down gently on the stool and I say, look. The keys. They are either black or white. Now press them all in succession and you will understand. And Charlotte carefully spread her fingers across the checked palate and let them move."

"Evangeline is dreaming and Charlotte is playing music," said Moriah. "They are both beautiful but I suppose I despise them both. When they have the chance they will leave. When they have the chance they will dissolve. They will go where I cannot follow. They do not live in daily succession. They try to fly without the physics, to climb without the mountain. They transcend but they do not live. Mother is emptying the dishwasher. I move to help her, pausing only occasionally to wipe the lukewarm water from the tops of upside-down cups on the wet dishrag with disgust. They do not respect me. I am too blunt for Helen and Jericho, to harsh for Mother and Father, and I refuse to mingle with the other two. And yet I know that I am durable - I, above all else, will endure."