A Lori Visit

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Looking out from my study, the day is thick with clouds; smoke-charcoal, fast-flying, and liquid. It’s hard to write something beautiful on such a day.

Without warning, there’s a tapping on my study window.

I push open the patio doors. “Lori…what a day to be visiting!” The child’s rain-shined face is surrounded by transparent rainproof fabric.

“The gate was open, Mr. Harry. I guess you were hoping I’d come?” She says, kicking off green rain boots, on the front of which frog’s eyes are popping. “I hope I’m not a nuisance, Mr. Harry?”

“Not at all, Lori.”

“This is a nice room,” she says, looking around at the bookshelves, the prints on the wall. Pictures of hares pulling a sled. Elves having a picnic in the wood. Photos of my children and mementos from far and wide that document my travels. But Lori stares longest at a picture of the Divinity.

“Do you come in here a lot, Mr. Harry?”

“Most every day,” I answer, pulling the piano stool in her direction.

“Sit here, child.”

“Mr. Harry, do you think I am ugly?”

The frankness of her question hit me like a stone aimed at the heart, coming from a slingshot. I remembered back to my childhood, coming home in the evenings. I had that look; the sun and wind had cracked and bronzed my face after a day in the fields. I was a rebellious kid, ugly, and gave my mother some heartache. I grew up different from other kids. If an artist were to have drawn my face, he would have drawn Beano, or Brutus, anything that resembled trouble.

“Do you feel ugly, Lori?”

How does a writer attempt such healing? I can always make beauty happen on the page. I come to sit here in my safe place, my mind dizzy with thoughts tumbling and falling all over the place. A world made up of scent and taste and touch and words of warmth, mystery, and excitement. Of course, it’s hopeless and stupid and leads to some impasse that words alone will not bridge.

“Yesterday, it was sunny; a man sitting outside a café asked me if I would like to sit for a sketch.”

“You said, yes?”

“I did, Mr. Harry.”

“This man, did he tell you what kind of sketch?”

“It was too long a word; like carryapicture?”

“Ah, I see, Lori. You mean Caricature.”

“Yes, Mr. Harry. The artist must have thought me very ugly.”

I was thirteen when I received my first kiss. It was strange. Cool air swept across my face. Then the kiss was over, never repeated till I was seventeen. I swooned that second time, something flew out of me. We stopped kissing. She looked at me, smiled, touched my mouth then kissed me again. We said nothing at all. She turned and walked away. I felt like the most beautiful man in the world.

“You know, Lori, the artist thought you were the most beautiful girl he ever saw.”

“I don’t think so, Mr. Harry.”

“Let me explain something. The artist drawing your face is the kind of artist who looks for particular features. He looks for perfection. You see, perfection stretches his ability. I know it’s hard for you to understand right now, Lori, but a caricature is like a window into the soul.”

“A window into my soul, Mr. Harry? That’s beautiful.”

“And that is what that artist saw in your face, Lori. He saw inner beauty.”

“Like today, Mr. Harry. I love the sun. But I love the clouds and rain. It makes the sun more beautiful,” she said, sliding off the piano stool and pulling on her froggy rain boots.

“You’re going so soon, Lori?”

“I know you want to write, Mr. Harry. I can feel it. Your study is warm and safe. I know now why you come here.”

“Yes, Lori.”

“I’ll close the gate, Mr. Harry. I’ll come again,” she said, pulling the rain hood to frame her face.

I watch her dancer’s feet, in green rain boots, disappear across the garden. It is a picture of perfect beauty on a cloudy day.

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