Unidentifiable paw prints in the snow or sand. The human stops in their tracks upon meeting yours, creature. There is a moment of perplexed pause, wonder, and then of subtle panic. A shifty-eyed glance here and there, a more serious look around, a squint at the landscape—and then, a return to the inner chatter, a shrug. Did you laugh from where you hid? A little giggle before scampering away?
Maria. With meanings ranging from ‘drop in the ocean,’ ‘beloved,’ ‘wished-for-child,’ ‘rebelliousness,’ ‘bitter’ and ‘little bird the size of a pigeon’, this name — that when spoken sings instead — has traversed borders and languages and eras, has been passed down and re-worked into thousands of variations. Maria Helena, Maria Teresa, Mary, Mariam, Marie Antoinette, Maria del Carmen, Μαρία, María, Mariya. Do names hold promises? Flickers of destiny? I don’t know what it’s like to select the sound that a new human will respond to for the rest of its life (and what a wild and holy decision that is) but given the recurrence, and the grace it continues to hold, I wonder if there’s something about the name Maria.
Wedding dresses. White, creme, ivory, champagne, silk, lace, tulle, crystal belts, mermaid skirts, cathedral trains, illusion veils. This dizzying industry swallows up unsuspecting brides into a circus of shifting notions of purity and tradition, promising a shallow bit of nonsense, there like a dog whistle, nothing anyone would say aloud: get the details right, the fabric, the fit, the beading, the price, and you’ll look and feel as perfect as you’re supposed to, on this ceremonial day, the beginning of the rest of your life. As a girl, this was all so majestic to me. When I had not yet seen the world, its oceans, its parades, its mountainside temples.
The sweetness of Spring. Last year, on a Tuesday in March at 5:02 PM I emerged from a grey office building onto a busy boulevard and inhaled, with the best shock, a sudden sweetness in the air. It is the scent that I want between every sheet and cushion and painted onto the walls and doors of my home. I want it to travel through each strand of my hair like a whisper. It is a magnificent feeling, the sudden sense that the forlorness of winter is fading once again.
Dutch staircases. Akin to ladders, they are narrow, steep, winding, sometimes even spiraling and built to maximize space in tall houses. To this day, in Amsterdam, the top floors of many homes – including my Great-Aunt’s – can only be reached by climbing a staircase that requires the heel of one’s foot to hang precariously off the edge with each step.
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