I watched from the corner of a room as a young girl talked with her little brother about changes. They laughed and she shooed him out of the room before straightening up and fixing her hair. She walked from the room with her held held high, and as she passed her parents standing near the staircase, her face hardened with seriousness. Her parents grinned at the long, black dress she wore that was punctured here and there by curls of flesh-colored silk. They laughed at the somber look on her face and teased their young child lovingly as they watched her climb the stairs silently and stoically. As she continued up the heavy wooden staircase, eyes straight ahead and hands cupped in front of her, holding a glowing flame within, her limby body seemed to grow a bit. Her dark hair slowly lost its child-like wave and hung gracefully down her back.
As her body began to change, her parents stopped laughing and watched, wide-eyed and awed, as she ascended the stairs. Still palming the fire, the young girl reached the top of the staircase and found herself in a shadowy kitchen. She drifted toward a graying cabinet, which opened on its own accord. Inside, she peered into a small, white teacup, where a spider was restlessly trying to climb out.
(One of my mother's paintings, Freya, of me in my own youth)
