Call Me Swann

These days, Minneapolis is my own personal Musee D'Orsay, and only gradually have the statues started to move again. This is in large part thanks to Marc, who has returned to Minneapolis just in time for us to be there for each other. Also, a brunch at the Band Box Diner with my own personal Odette, a series of band-aids ripped off quickly, taking a bit of hair with them but leaving behind the raised scabs that will come off in the shower and reveal a pretty cool tattoo. I can say to myself, "there was a time when Odette loved me more than any other time," and though I know it must be true, I cannot find that moment; it has not been recorded; it is not to be found in any of the drawers in any of the rooms and besides I will never contrive myself to look. Knowing it is somewhere means more to me than finding it; should I locate it, perhaps in the form of a pressed chrysanthemum, I'd no doubt find the feeling and the moment in which it is wrapped, like a speck in a raindrop, somewhat diminished, sapped of its color, turning to powder. And staring at Odette across the table over a shared pancake, I tried to see again the face, the face, but the particular veil through which I had come to know it has gone. It is another face now, and will soon belong to someone else. The particular magic with which it once entranced me has gone.