Portrait of the Angel Convinsed She Were a Girl

., by snjezana

Her father had serious ideas about his daughter wearing a tutu when she was little, and he smiled, delighted, to see her prance across soft wooden floors. __Once, she had ran in circles on the grass in the park, occasionally launching into clumsy pirouettes, that with her still somewhat baby-fatted knees and elbows, she imagined were rendered perfectly. For no reason at all, one of her pirouettes found her too far off the ground, and she gasped in fear that she'd fly away. She promised God never to try and escape if only He'd land her safely back on the ground. Upon landing, she would delight her father by contesting him at chess.

When still young, she once found a starfish at the park, and taken out of context, could not understand what it was. She thought it was an alien creature and ran from it.

On swings she closed her eyes and imagined her self as the ocean-tide.

One day she came home from school, and found her mother sitting in an arm chair, quietly crying. Why are you crying? Her mother had gestured, the air. Confused, she turned and faced the room: moderately worn couches, coffee table, awkward television no one liked to watch (I don't like the noise it makes her father would say). She had not understood what of the air. Her mother had laughed once, taken her into her arms, squeezed her into a little ball, and whispered into the hair covering her ear: baby baby, such sweet baby. I'm listening to it. Only then, she had noticed the music, and recognized the song, she had fallen alseep to it when she was younger. I know this, why does it make you cry? Her mother shrugged, and laughed again.

Her first white-dress she had smeared with a green-grass-stain. Her father had shaken his head and said: the angel has painted a small white kiss-mark on perfectly innocent grass somewhere. She had laughed and clasped her hands together. She had felt understood. After cleaning it, she had worn it out on Family-Day-Sunday. Her father had looked straight at her and said: darling, I am unsure if it's fit to wear only a cloud for our outing. She had laughed and stared at the frowns on his forehead.

Already 5 months of the first year of highschool had elapsed when in the afternoon a shy boy attempted to kiss her. He fumbled his lips and for a split second found his tongue in her mouth; then pulled away. Stared at her scared and ashamed. I'm soo sorry had said. Why? He had turned, and walked abruptly away, never to return the same.

Walking home one day a year later, she felt an unusual urge to pick up a dandelion and blow into existence a white dress she remembered from her childhood. She had picked up a daffodil and sucked on its end and plucked its petals one at a time and rubbed them between her fingertips and thought that if she stitched a garden's worth together, she'd have a finer dress than could be made with satin.

The first time she made love it was a kiss on some boy's yellow couch. He had looked at her as though he could see through to the other side of a star. It had been so acute the Sun would have looked down and blushed. She had not. She stared back at him. Smiled. She knew her powers. He had smiled, taken her hand, and kissed the back of her hand. He had stepped in through the gate. He ran his hand up her arm (walked along the outside garden). Had presented himself at the front door (stared at her, lips to lips, let their breaths collide, for moments before he knocked and pressed his to hers. She had waited, eyes open, wondering if he'd run away ashamed.

Life had been occasionally interrupted with the chase for papers and letters and jobs and, when she drove her car, she could never remember how she came to be where she was. She would only see traffic as shapes and blurs of color and strange concoctions of metal and escaped sunlight.

(he had layed his head on her chest and listened to all the things she had saved one day to tell just him).

in silence, he listened, giggling when appropriate. sighing when needed. and communicating through his hand (entangled in hers) all the necessary responses she needed to tell him the whole of her story, from African spiders to green apples.

Her first interstate road-trip alone, she had stopped the car in the middle of nowhere, precisely between noon and sunset, and took a photo of a tree alone in a paddock, the blue sky cutting the green lawn, and, stepping unto the middle of the road, a grey strip halved by a yellow line. Having sufficiently archived her rite, she returned to her car, fastened her seat belt, and drove on.

Six months after being lost in the size of the world, she'd return to the only city she knew as home, knowing for sure that the only thing waiting for her would be a 36" upright Kawai piano, and the thing she loved second-most about life: winter.

The second time she had made-love was with her whole body. He had layed above her, but seemed to dip occasionally into the space she occupied- as though the universe had consented for them to fit neatly into the same skin. She was not scared, but stared only into his eyes, not wanting to lose her way in this earthquake. Behind his ears she could see the lights in the room dancing, the ceiling, and then shut her eyes to kiss. She was then lost, could not determine whose hand was holding whose; could not tell where her legs were; had made a strange noise she hadn't known to exist inside her; and realized outside their bodies the world had ceased to exist and was shaking itself to oblivion and it wouldn't ever matter again.

In Prague the boys had let her sleep in the bed because she had had a cold, and they had wanted her to be comfortable.

One day, she'd walk to her car, and in the middle of spring would find one perfectly aged, perfectly dry, autumn leaf on the sidewalk. She was growing old. And her dance with life would soon lose the count.

(once, when she was still a child, her father had blown on her belly button and she had laughed and squealed and said: daddy, stop that!
ok. all done then. Best get to sleep!
Noooo! I'm kidding!
blrlrlrlrlrlr! [as blows on belly]
AAAAhhhhhhahah!______STOP!
no problem!
Daddy:
yes?
what happens when we're not people anymore?
We go back to being angels.
Why aren't we angels anymore?
We took a break.
Why?
What's your favorite thing to do?
mmm. do pirouettes.
We took a break to do pirouettes.
It's a long break.
Not really.
You've waited a long time to be an angel again- look how old you are.
I promise you, you'll find wonderful ways to pass the time.
What happens when I get older?
(one day you'll look in the mirror and notice you've had your wings the whole time)
[runs to the bathroom screaming] I ddoonn't seee them!
[father laughs] they're there baby face. I said ONE day you'll see.
Can I fly with them?
One day.
Which day?
One day.
When I'm 12?
probably not.
29?
probably not then either.
then when?

She did her family's laundry, and folded everything up into little piles, placed them carefully into the orange laundry basket, and walked back inside to make herself a cup of tea.