She delved into the deep-seated, murky depths of what she could only designate as her memory; a place without bounds, like a never-ending field of green and flaxen, sun-bleached grass. The overexposed lens of her mind’s eye gave way to sacred moments, uncovered treasures so tangible she could slip them on like a sweater. Dancing with her father, her child-sized feet atop his shoes, with every path ahead of her, every choice of road, a life without limits. Seated at the kitchen table with her mother, acculmulated rules, lessons, stories, the written words of her past, and, as she grew older with greater understanding of the interactions of a delicate and feeble world, the realization of peripheral dreams crumbling like the thinning of hanging moss as it streams down the face of a steep and uneven rock. And finally she remembered a time when she was not pinned down to the person she had become, not hammered into shape, but amorphous, naïve and unknowing, in flowered dresses and carefree smiles. And she realized in that moment, in that digging, reaching back and churning up hard-packed yet fertile soil that some choices in life come at a cost, but butterflies are free.

***

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via Liza Kaplan, 28 April 2009 10:43am | 3 |