she stitches the gown in layers of purple, four different shades of dark and hand-dyed to suit her exact criteria. it all but ruins her eyes; she stares so long, so hard at the stitching in fading light, rousing herself when she truly cannot see any more. embroiders patterns across in gold, luscious patterns crafted …
this happens again and again.
There's a new flower in the vase - I had almost forgotten about it.
sometimes, she likes to sit still.
everyone tells her this is going to be a simple way to do things: they tell her she has to shut off the technology that thrums under her fingers and it will bring relief.
remove the curtains from the windows, scrub the glass until it turns to diamond .
the kitchen is out of order, off-kilter. the benchtop is narrow, evenly-matched,
the guardian waits outside the door,pacing to and fro.it's deep winter and there is iceon every foot of the fence.the gates are frozen stiff,locked with clumped ice over thekeyhole. the chain behind the gate issolid, immobile with the denselayer of ice. the guardian has been outin the coldfor several years now.it is the way theyprefer …
the world is supposed to be noisy, she knows this. knows it in the way rain patters over the roof and the ocean.
It's become habit, buying new glassware every so often.