Devotion_Why I Write by Patti Smith

Author:Patti Smith [Smith, Patti]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: poetry, Writing
ISBN: 9780300218626
Goodreads: 34607044
Publisher: Yale University Press
Published: 2017-09-12T00:00:00+00:00

4

It was the first day of spring. The light streamed into her window and spread across her coverlet. There were pictures of Eva Pawlik taped on the wall over her bed. Her skates were hanging from a hook beckoning, but the ice was already melting. She made herself some cocoa, then unfolded a small blanket she kept in a basket in the corner of her room. Irina had given it to her on the morning of her thirteenth birthday, having saved it through the years, waiting for the right moment. The blanket had been made for her by her mother, and pinned to it was a letter written by her father. At the time she could not read it, but she studied the language, translated it, and read it over and over. He wrote of lifting her in the air and delighting in the fact that she had his mother’s eyes, deep brown eyes that seemed to contain everything. The blanket was like a soft peach and had tiny flowers stitched on the edges.

Thank you mother, she whispered, thank you father. Eugenia mended Irina’s old knit sweater, finding a long strand of her hair, and wondered if she would ever come back. Irina had raised her and harbored all there was to know of their history. It had always been difficult to draw anything out of her, though sometimes, when she had too much vodka, she would speak about the song of the wolves, the ice-covered trees, or the scent of the pink-and-white flowers that covered everything in spring. But nothing of her mother and father. Eugenia often searched for answers in the cold eyes of Irina.

—Don’t look for your mother in me, she would say. You must find her in yourself.

—Do I look like her?

—I really couldn’t say, she would answer impatiently, applying her lipstick.

—But have I her hair.

—Yes, yes.

—Do I have eyes like my father?

—Don’t look back, Eugenia, she would counsel, slipping on her fox stole. Everything is before us.

Now I have a coat finer than hers, she thought ruefully. But she would have given it gladly for just one new piece of the puzzle. She had nothing save a recurring dream, like a moving still from a grainy film—her mother shading her eyes from the sun and sheets unfurling on a line. Though separated too young for it to be a true memory, she clung to it as if it were. She stitched together any passing reference, simple recollection, new facet of an old story, entreating Irina to offer up some new small patch for the fragile quilt that added up to herself. She never asked for love, nor longed for affection, had no experience with boys, not even adolescent kisses. She only wished to know who she was, and to skate. That was all she desired.

Eugenia took the card from her coat pocket. He had offered her everything. Her own trainer, fine skates, a place to practice as much as she wanted. She laid the card

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