Pulitzer

I.

I am reading a children’s book called Hamish and Trieta, in which Hamish is a cow and Trieta is a bird. These two become fast friends. Good pals. Buddies.

Sometimes the bird sits upon the cow’s back. Often the cow wishes he might sit upon the bird’s back, but of course this is impossible. The poor darling bird simply flits away, chirping, chirping, always chirping, full of nonsense, not explaining. They fall apart, like many others in this fickle universe. Separated.

I close Hamish and Trieta. What a hideous story. I was seduced by its whimsical cover, entranced by its gilded pages. Mother bought it for me ages ago from some downtown bookstore with cerulean walls. Pulitzer, declares the cover, in golden script. I do not understand what a Pulitzer is and I do not particularly care.

            I am a child, yet I know that horrid things do not deserve Pulitzer awards.

Rage, like vomit, pools in my throat. The tip of my jaw is numb.

I chew on my rage as if it is licorice. Soft. Flexible. Savory.

Then, all at once, what is sweet slips away. Somehow I miss it.

II.

One of my close friends from ballet likes to discuss hobbies. It seems she doesn't do much in life, except kind of float and carry a presence of being there, wherever "there" is. 

Her name is Lola.

She baked Pieta Fjords for ballet class one week and brought them in on silver trays. Each morsel had a toothpick sticking straight up out of it. Rows and rows of lamp posts. She named them herself, as she is an admirer of both glaciers and Michelangelo.

Lola owns horses. One is a chestnut mare. The other is a runt. Of course, everyone loves the chestnut mare, but the runt came with the other horse for free. I have been to Lola’s house. I like the runt most of all.

Lola is a candle collector. She purchases one candle per month but never lights them. Dozens of raw wicks poke up from her windowsill. They wish to be lit, you know. They are desolate, even.

Her favorite candle is Biscotti Crème Brulee.

Most of all, Lola reads. She is always quite careful to read the entire selection first, but upon reaching the end, Lola flips to the front cover of the book and gazes for a good long while. Surely, the cover is important. Cover art links certain individuality to each infinitesimal character entombed within the trappings of ink and parchment.

Now, when I finish a novel (even odious novels) I flip to the front cover and gaze for a good long while. Nothing to lose, eh? The author chose the cover, anyway. It is a simple expression of idea and purpose.

Mother says I am too brilliant for my age. I should not be thinking about philosophy, yet I do so enjoy it. It must be my rebellious streak, surfacing.

III.

In ballet there are warm lights above and all around, producing luminous shadows on a shadow-eating stage. My silhouette dances and flits where it may. 

Lola and I are the best ballerinas in our class. We have the prettiest hair and the daintiest shoes. We are technically correct. She laughs often, during rehearsal, as if she is not bound by anxiety to be “just so,” and yet is “just so.”

Lola’s left eye rolls around in her head. The eye is milky white, grayish blue, the color of the flu. The other eye is just fine.

Today we rehearse in Hyde Theatre. Tomorrow we perform. Eighteen girls rise to their tippy toes. We are water droplets, poppy seeds, cashmere. Each thread intertwined, long last a tapestry, performing for a vault of vacant thrones. This is our best performance because tomorrow there is no Lola because today Lola is confused by the new stage and her rolling left eye cannot see where the stage drops off and

Lola floats to the floor beneath, an autumn leaf, biting concrete until her mouth is bleeding out and staining maple to dark cherry and

Her forehead shatters like china and

All the ballerinas and tin soldiers are screaming.

IV.

Licorice. Present on my lips, stronger than before. Black licorice this time. Stale, black licorice.

Mother says I think too much about philosophy.

But I cannot help — as I lean over Lola’s coffin, so small and pixie’s dancing — I cannot help but recall my dear friend’s advice. I shall be quite careful to read the entire selection first, and upon reaching the end, I shall flip to the front cover and gaze for a good long while.

By the light of one Biscotti Crème Brulee candle, I memorize Lola’s delicate face. Her life was a beautiful, humble story. I murmur a soft prayer.

The Author chose the cover, anyway. It is a simple expression of idea and purpose.

I brought a golden Sharpie with me. While others retreat to the reception and sample Lola’s famous Pieta Fjords, I linger. In my neatest cursive script, I write a single word upon Lola’s porcelain forehead.

Pulitzer.