dollhouse fragments

I used to love the way the room was white.

White. Grandma’s room was all white.

I used to imagine heaven was all white.

White like heaven, like God was there, all the world made of his white robes, his white hair. So much white hair, like rain. White. White. Chalk, like chalk, absorbing yet repelling. Invisible, every color rolled into white. Every bitter day, heaved sighed etched into the walls. Chalk white of the writing on the board. Chalk white so it looked clean. Chalk white, waiting for color. Waiting to hold the color. Grandma’s nubby summertime bedspread. The bedspread she used all year around. The blue white of her reading lamp. The whites of her grey eyes. The white in her silver hair.

White was all he could do, leaving space for color someday.

White of the looming sun.

White light, only son.

White, the dread when you close your eyes. So strong. So gone.

© 2006

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Holly hails from an illustrious lineage of fortune tellers, yogis, folk healers, troubadours and poets of the fine and mystical arts. Shape-shifting Tantric Siren of the Lunar Mysteries, she surfs the ebbs and flows of the multiverse on the Pure Sound of Creation. Her alchemy is Sacred Folly — revolutionary transformation through Love, deep play, Beauty, and music.

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