Last night, I dreamed of a writer.
An elderly woman in a floral, aubergine and magenta gown stood before me. I studied her as she reached for her velvet, plum robe and matching slippers. The tie of her garment was a shimmery gold rope that hung delicately near her heals.
She smelled of amber.
She smelled of amber.
In a dimly lit, peculiar cottage I sat on a chartreuse "loved in" couch. I felt my backside sinking almost all the way to the glossy wooden floor. I studied the walls. On my left hung a velvet painting: Tulips in front of a red barn. Next to it was a shelf full of miniatures: Animals, tiny couches and chairs, Volkswagen beetles, and small tea cups. On my right were beautiful, dimensional abstract pieces of red, plum, cerulean, and hunter green.
After bustling around in the kitchen, the woman brought out a silver, floral tray with two cups of coffee on it. As she sat the tray before me on the rouge ottoman near my feet, her thick gray hair fell into her face. She casually tied it back and I noticed gold earrings on her ears that were almost identical to my grandmother's.
After handing me my coffee she drew near.
"Do you see my calloused knuckle?"
I studied her fragile hands, and the translucent, yellow, protruding lump on her right ring finger.
"I am a writer."
She said.
I smiled without saying anything;
I studied her hands further.
"You see the worn pad here? On the back of my right hand?"
In an attempt to be interactive I reached out and turned her hand in the stream of sunlight
inviting itself in from the kitchen.
"I am a writer."
She said.
She stood up and touched the dip above her right collar bone.
She then held her hands out acting as if she was holding an invisible child and began dancing with it around the room.
"Are you a mother?"
I asked.
Without slowing, she warmly expressed:
"Of course I am dear! I am a writer!"
She then stepped towards me, changing the posture of her hands. She began playing an invisible violin.
"Well, I suppose you're a musician too?"
I mused.
Similarly, she responded:
"Of course my darling! I am a writer!"
I chuckled.
She then stepped into her dimly lit back room. Assuming it was either her bedroom or her private study, I did not follow her. A moment later she emerged from the den with a stack of books.
"Are you a student?"
I asked.
"I am...
To a writer."
She responded.
I inquired about the authors in her collection, expecting to hear her list off names such as:
Keats,
Dickinson,
Emerson,
Whitman,
And
Cummings.
To my surprise she said:
"These are the works of a young poet. Her name is Autumn Jade. Now, that name has a nice ring to it don't you think?"
Flattered, I nodded my head.
She continued: "I like to read her work from the beginning to end. She learns a lot
throughout her life. Teachable things. Learnable things. Wise things. I enjoy her tenacity.
I suppose my favorite part is:
She is brave the whole time. She just doesn't know it yet."
I smiled and studied her as she went on, complimenting me.
Surely she knew who I was.
Didn't she?
"Do you have any works published?"
I asked.
Her expression changed from excitement to euphoria. She beamed. Signaling me to
wait with her index finger she stepped back into her study.
This time, she came out with a leather-bound book.
The book had no engravings in the cover--no title. The edges of its pages were
a shimmery gold. It looked somewhat like a journal.
"This one is my most recent. It is for my late husband--the love of my life."
She sat it in my lap,
My fingers traced the cover.
I opened it to the dedication page.
Aloud I read:
"For my Beloved whom I loved all of my life.
And to my Youth, for whom I will never stop composing."
Love,
Autumn Jade Monroe
