unite
She sees it from afar -- the old district building with its blocks bearing colours with strange names like beige and taupe and wenge, and she thinks, finally, she's home, dear God, I can lay my bones down and rest
He came along one day, dressed in that sharp houndstooth number, riding along like a king on a card. Nothing so suited a person better.
Pearl-moons, diamond-stars scattered on black-black velvet
Wrapped up in the folds of your sweater (god, you know I hate this brand), I suppose I can't think of any place better.
. . . Standing in the open archway of the door, you suddenly find yourself extremely self-conscious; why, this is not like you, no, not at all! Is my tie straight? How is the cuff on my sleeve? What is my arm doing there? And I swear I buttoned my collar up to the chin! It turns out that your tie and your arm and your collar, especially, don't matter anyway; they all come off, wearisome and tired as your bones, by the end of the night.
"Don't worry, dear," Mother says to Red. "You'll be fine. And just imagine how happy your grandmother will be to see you." Mother smooths her daughter's brown locks, and tucks the basket underneath the girl's palm. Red isn't without fear, for she is to go into the wood alone (albeit in the daylight where no menacing shadow would cross her path). Her mother's words comfort her, however.
As Red begins to leave, Mother says "Hold on, darling--" and ties the big red bow on her daughter's jacket into a knot. Red smiles, her cheeks the colour of apples.
He's done it before, over the course of tens of thousands of shows in his career, possessing a cockroach-like longevity that had began far into his childhood . . . that sweeping motion, the strain at the waist . . .
But tonight tears sting his eyes, for he knows--and the audience knows--it will be his last. He takes a bow, and another, and another. He is sure he can stand and allow the applause fill his ears forever.