There’s layers to her, as though she’d put on too many clothes for the temperature of the day.
I wonder if I’m the only one who sees beneath the white cashmere shawl, the top layer she shows to the world. It’s so soft, hand knit by my mother, all innocence, a cotton-candy confection of disguise.
Beneath that shawl are coats of many colors, my father’s army jacket crusty with war, a Guatemalan shirt proclaiming her connection to the wronged peasants, a gray London Fog raincoat stained with years of deluges. If you stand close to her when she walks you can hear the clink of rusted chain mail or catch a glimpse of medieval armor kept brilliantly polished for the camera. The hair shirt is brown and never seen but I know its there. She once showed me the sleeve.
The nun’s habit is black, the confirmation dress pristine white, all of them are costumes for her multiple roles.
I stand next to her and peer into her face trying to see into her eyes, said to be the mirrors of our souls. Her eyes are hooded like a falcons, cast in deep shadow, unreadable, and empty like a corpse.
Look into my eyes and you will see that my sister is the opposite of me.
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This one is just so original. The metaphor of the layers of clothing never gets stale, never gets cliched. And through it, you give us a complete picture of a complex person. Wonderful!
ReplyDeleteWow, you are a deep person. I have never thought to look into anyone's eyes. You say a lot for yourself in your writings.
ReplyDeleteFor me, I am too shallow and spill it all out.