Happy birthday, Jane

Source: jasna.org
I hold the page and smile. I touch the face I loved.
It’s become famous, this image, and called like and unlike by those who knew her. And I gaze at it and see what they see and see what they do not. I’ve tried to draw too, though not skilled in the art, and hold this example, that like my own attempts, has captured the cheek and the hair that wisped against it, the brow and the eyes that enjoy its shelter. They are orbs of beauty, glistening just as I remember, looking at me, as I always wanted, windows to the soul that I loved more dearly than I loved cheek, eye, brow or hair. 
It is the nose and the mouth with which the artist has failed. I do not fault her – she loved, perhaps if not better than I, at least longer, as sisters always will. But the nose cannot be drawn to capture the way it looked at this angle or that, once pert, then smart, Grecian and then curled like a tulip’s petal, in all its dimension impossible to accurately portray in this medium – perhaps in any. But the mouth, I think, is harder still. The way it smiles and laughs – yes – as most artists will try to portray her, and it is fair to call her sisterly lines accurate, true, curving where a smile will, bowing at the right place above sweet chin, below perfect nose. But how true is constant smiling? Can a beloved be caught in such a state and still be fully seen as beautiful?
Though sorrowful to see, I loved her when she frowned, ate, spoke, hurled abuse – mock and earnest – and even when her lovely rudder was curled in grief and covered with tears. Still, I smile and touch the face again, remembering, loving ever still, the one who knew of love but little, spoke of love yet less, but wrote of love like no one has or ever will.


Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Truth Lies & Everything in Between: A Propaganda Almanac

Image
When I was in third grade, a family of Vietnamese refugees moved to the small Eastern Washington town where we lived at the time. The family was large and included two school-aged boys, Wa and Him, who started going to our school. Wa was in my class and I wanted to make them all feel welcome, so one day after school, my sister and I walked to their house and knocked on the door. Wa’s family welcomed us inside and gave us watered down Coke to drink. None of them spoke English, but they smiled and nodded at us while we drank our Coke. I don’t remember much else about the experience except that my feelings were all positive, they were super nice and I was glad that our little town had taken in refugees from a war-torn part of the world. I tell this story to remind you of who I am. To soften you for what I am about to say next. Because I STILL want to accept refugees from war-torn parts of the world and from our neighboring countries to the south. My heart bleeds for people despe...
Read more

Dear Hiring Manager: Here's Why you Should Hire that Candidate with Autism

Image
Dear Hiring Manager: This is  Autism Awareness Month , and one of the areas where "awareness" is most lacking is probably in your human resources department. If you have spent any time at all interviewing candidates for positions at your company, you have encountered some with autism. You might have seen them come and go without even knowing that AUTISM was the reason they talked a little different, struggled with their words or failed to look you in the eye. Why am I so sure you have already interviewed someone with autism? Because roughly one percent of the population has autism . Most of those, you probably rejected immediately. In fact, employment rates for people with autism -- even autistic  college graduates -- is discouragingly  low . Lower than those in any other disabled group.   And yet, research also shows that people on the autism spectrum make great employees . They are honest, dedicated and punctual. In addition, many autistic people have...
Read more

Dreaming of Neverland

Image
J.M. Barrie's PETER PAN**   E very once in a while, I wake from a dream and remember the strange place I have been visiting.  It is only familiar in those vaporous moments between sleep and wakefulness.  A peculiar house is there with white peeling paint, a spiral staircase that leads up to a room with walls made of glass, and views of the island in every direction.  I remember in that moment that I have been there before.  I remember Neverland. If I were still a child, I would know better than to rub the sleep from my eyes.  It breaks the magic of memory.  The only way to return (if only in my dreams) is after a childlike day – perhaps spent at Disneyland, wearing mouse ears and eating cotton candy – or building living room forts with my children.  It absolutely cannot return unless licorice has been consumed and something odd has been worn as a hat.  But grownups like me forget the important things so easily.  We ...
Read more