dimanche, février 08, 2004


There is a certain irresistible sun patch that comes through the bay window of my mother's house and spreads at an angle along the Persian rug in the living room. I found Max stretching his striped self out in it on my way out this morning, and I felt a sudden urge to drop my coat and purse and join him on the floor,burying my face in his warm fur. As a teenager, I would spend countless afternoons on that rug in that spot, reading and daydreaming, imagining my adult life. I pictured the woman I would become, the places I would travel to, the chic apartment I would have, the men I would love.

It was the same sun spot where as a younger girl, frustrated at the concept of learning fractions and not understanding how my textbook explained it, my father told me to close my eyes and imagine a pizza with 10 slices. "Imagine, you give two of those slices to your friends. Now what do you see?"

I had always been an extremely literal child. With my eyes closed to the incoming sun, I answered, simply, "Orange."

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