amber
'it's not precious at all', the man warns me, 'but women bring their amber to me, hoping to find some value.'
i am anxious as i hand him the molten gold for kintsukuroi, let him cut open my chest.'
'don't get your hopes up,' he examines my 11 ounces of amber, tapping it feeling it.
the chinese calandula draught has numbed the pain.
'it is as i suspected,' the joallier's eyepiece mists up, i notice everything. i hear everything.
'three cracks' his voice seems to be firm, 'three betrayals.'
the molten gold is applied with a fine brush. i can hear the swish swish.
he should be applying the irises by now. but he's watching me, 'you have capacity for pain, and that's unusual. the two breaks are obvious for a married woman. one from husband and another from children. but tell me who gave you the third?'
'no one,' i can barely speak, 'just put me back.'
the van gogh mug with irises has been pound to dust. if he would just put the paste on my open chest, the blue flowers would grow on me. that's how it was supposed to be. why was he still looking at the amber heart? i could feel the glow dimming.
'you paid me to fill the first two breaks, i've done that...'
'that's enough, thank you.' i feel tears escaping my eyes and making my ears wet...
'but your father paid me to fill the third one,' he shows me a smaller vial with more gold.
'you can't do that! i need to feel something...'
'you carry the memories in the blue irises growing out of you, you don't need to carry it in your heart. you'll just die sooner if i don't fill it.'
'last time i looked, what i was doing wasn't called being alive...'
#NaPoWriMo
No comments:
Post a Comment