January 26, 2013 - 3:28
The girl may have been on the phone, or more likely she posed the question to herself, but either way the words she chose resonated physically in my body, in a similar way that religious fervor hits you, "Yes, that is how I feel about this imperceptible metaphysical thing, and you just said it accidentally."
Why is she leaving? Why is she leaving? There are scenes you play out that aren't literal, you aren't in LaGrande, but the scenes happen reflexively when you need her. They are scenes of emotion given the form of a vague, I want to say vaporous, mirage. As you see the life leave her, with addled futility you wonder why did she leave. What happened in that moment where she was there and then she wasn't, and why couldn't she have stayed.
A feeling so similar, and perhaps just as simple as the confusion, and yes even resentment, that I perceived this girl to be feeling as her Mother drove away without her. It's not rational, or fair, but it's pointless to deny a feeling that will weaken you whether or not you choose to express it.
The girl had run up the stairs ahead of me in concert with her frantic query. I said, maybe slightly aloud or only mentally at the back of her head, "You won't find her." It was true that she didn't find her. She fled the lot, descending the stairs which were the ones I was still ascending, divided by an iron rail. I saw her face for the first time, which was an overwrought mask, but I felt as though mine was strangely calm even though I cried when I got to my car.
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