On a Sepember afternoon, the wind

“I grew up in Santa Ana.” she smiled at the incongruence of names, the placid town and the powerful wind. “Can you smell it? Memories.”

“My mom’s curtains would blow, fiercely. Books might fall from a shelf. You went there then too, didn’t you?” This of a past that we shared in an unsavory discotheque. “It was 1982, and 3; I was thirteen.”

I saw her for a moment, at 13 and at 43: I saw the inspired yet clumsy attire of a girl, and a white mini-dress, still inspired, business-like now, felicitous in her grace. This vision hovered between us. No, not between, it joined us – outside of time, I think.

“That book you gave me,” now she’s nodding to a friend, though her mind is focused elsewhere, “funny that it is blue, like the sky. Three volumes. But you can’t see the wind. I’ve set it on a shelf, before a sculpture.” Here, she smiled again: another book, I thought, another shelf. “I never read it in school, and,” gesturing around the gallery, “well, I will someday. That story of the madeleines…”

For Amy Thoner, on September 27, 2013, at 8:33pm.

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