She walks, destination unknown. Doors don't open. Every turn a miss, every miss frustration. Jove finds her as he always does. She sleeps a colorful sleep. She dreams of mirrors, rooms and the helpless. She dreams of infancy, mountains and stone houses. "What did you dream of last night?" I ask. "I don't know," she says. It's okay though...I know. I know her story.
She sits in a transparent gaze, reflecting a canyon of color. A drink - to all that we've lost and everything it cost us.
"When were you born?" I ask. "April...1933," she says. All is well.
Sunrise..."Where am I? Who brought me here?" she says. "This is your home," says Jove. "This is our home." Faces, pictures and voices mean nothing. From color to darkness, from darkness to emptyness, times slips away. It's okay though...I know. I know her story.
Something calm about the afternoon. A familiarity sets in.
She wants to talk. "Tell me," I say. "Tell me everything."
"But I don't know anything," she says. "I don't even know who you are."
It's okay. I know. I know her story.
