The Alchemist A new can of paint sits on the wooden floor bright and tinny, a promise waiting to be fulfilled. You spy it, organize a search, finally discover a butter-knife, a tool for one purpose alone. You surprise me though, first talk—a three-year old and a paint can, co-conspirators, allies. “Open me. Open me.” it whispers. Your mouth moves with another’s voice. “Yes, yes” you answer, move your small hands in circles make hardy stabs, trying to uncover a purpose. I listen from the bedroom, an old gossip, surprised at the way life inhabits all things, surprised at your private genius the way you give words to the mute, turn lead into gold, bring objects to life.
Old Friends It’s there, not in the words, but in the way their bodies move together, with a gesture that lets go of itself to unravel a thought, then the accompanying nod, like steps in a dance. Surely such sober happiness comes from love distilled by the vinegar of time; Its slow passage makes the invisible visible. Faces start to look the same. Eyebrows curve at identical top corners. Language overcomes itself and births a new child. When did their conversation begin anyway? In the grocery store buying a loaf of bread? At a concert, Beethoven or Mozart? During the birth of a child? No one remembers. These two know each other’s secrets and lies. Each has thought about what is hidden and their talk includes all that too. Now the words include everything-- two aging bodies at a table surrounded by families, lovers, children, and enthusiastic dogs. Those near understand a word or phrase. The timing of a movement occasionally helps translate to outsiders. Underneath the talk, though, there’s the sound of water rushing, as if approaching the edge of a large waterfall, white foam falling fast. |
AuthorCoranna Adams is a writer, filmmaker, and educator from Asheville, North Carolina. Archives
March 2022
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