Solace

Solace

Solace is a writer and a climber, scaling the literary mountains, cliffs and peaks, seeking the summit or climax. She has grey hair and bright blue eyes, and Solace seems way too young for her age, in terms of her affect. Solace likes to ski, and she always laughs a hardy laugh when she falls, not minding the snow now in her panties. Solace’s arms encompass your whole body when she hugs you, and she rests her head on yours.

Solace has written books about her life, her future, and her past. No one reads them, but Solace couldn’t care less. She has so many stories of the old country, she just needed to get them out. Solace visits me on occasion, bringing with her a dandelion that she picked on the walk over. I’m tempted to toss it, but seeing that amazement in her eyes convinces me otherwise. Solace sings and dances and whistles, and her favorite song is Oh, Susanna! She wears yoga pants everywhere and not a drop of makeup. Solace can’t cook, for her life, but she enjoys trying, failing, and doing the dishes. She finds herself in doing the dishes. Solace has random knowledge about Cambodia, White Birch trees, and tabby cats.

Every now and again, Solace jumps out of my morning coffee and eggs, asking me how I slept. Solace carries at least five packs of gum with her at all times. She is afraid to point out something that I don’t do so well, so she changes the subject. Solace loves the color fuchsia, and no one knows why, not even her. Sometimes, when I’m desperate, I knock on her door, my hair studded with droplets of rain, and I ask to come inside, to be held. She smiles, opens the door, and I walk into the wooden house on the corner that I love so much.