The Ruby of the Sea by Peggy Lampman

Author:Peggy Lampman [Lampman, Peggy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: ALLIANCE PRESS
Published: 2020-02-04T22:00:00+00:00

16 Ivy

Studying the glass crevices is like looking at my dark side, the lesions and hollows of my heart, the places where this hurt and agony are too great to bear. Caught within this ruby of the sea is more misery and pain than one could imagine.

In the frosted haze of the piece, I see the oar crashing in on her skull. Like a fishhook linked into my brain, I bear witness to her grayish-green face staring at me. I see her empty sockets––opalescent as an oyster––eyes devoured by fish. Seaweed is tangled and woven into her hair, her features forever preserved in brine.

How horrified she must have been to know she was dying. As for Rossalea, she brought death onto herself. Every fear contains a desire, and I wonder: was death the Maiden’s wish all along? I place the glass on the table next to my easel, close my eyes, and wait.

Riding high on the crest of an enormous wave, I crash down, into the murky pit below sea level. The ocean surrounds me, yawning, and stretching. And in this brackish scent of time and memory, I land softly in the safe place.

Cool, deep and magical, it’s the place I capture lightning bugs on a slow summer evening, where Delphina braids my hair, and Linnea and I spend hours in the kitchen. It’s the place of childhood, before my brain betrayed, before the jagged angles of adolescence pierced the bubble. This place is the waiting room, where I wait for the mania to arrive.

I have a choice, you know. In my cup rests three capsules, torpedoes ready to launch me into medicated nothingness. Why can’t I be good, please my mother and follow the doctor’s orders? It’s of no use. After taking the pills, I’m groggy, my head stuffed with cotton.

Guilt swimming in my belly, I toss them into the trash. Art needs kindling. Idea after idea for my paintings tumbles through my head scrambling for attention. Like baby chicks scuttling the ground for crumbs of bread, they scatter about my brain. I remove the canvas, kept hidden under my bed, and return it to the easel. Picking up my paintbrush, I dip it into crimson oil and fill the Maiden’s lips, willing my trembling fingers to still.

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