There is this place, this ghost place in the back of my head; I can see it when my eyes are closed.
The ballroom filled with people. Big puffy women's dresses and big puffy wigs, which hid the smallest one of them all.
Waist high on her tippy toes.
People spinning around her like marionettes. Every time she opened her mouth to call out for her mama it was filled with fluff and all that would come out would be a muffled yell.
Dodging glass shoes, pushed into corners. Nothing as sad as the sounds of crushed little girl toes.
So many shoes, mouth full of fluff, the ghost crying child. Even the organ grinder can't feel her.
Oh, how she wants to hide under the dress of her mother, to cling to her fishy stockings. To be pulled up and over the world of dangerous feet.
How could a mama leave something so small alone with no prince to protect her?
Will no caring hand reach out to help her? Have such fluffy wigs fallen in front of such blind eyes?
Oh, if the tapestry could reach down and grab her it would, it would cradle her in a smooth golden embrace.
The chandelier would fall from the ceiling and pull her up, making her the highest of them all.
How blind are these people when even the paintings can see?
Such a little girl, in such a big room, in such a huge world.
How this child walks this ballroom as the children of the world walk the night, children's mouths stuffed with cotton. How they cry underneath such puffy dresses and such puffy wigs. Loud organ music covers shuddered sobs, big shoes step on tiny toes.
We need to shave and cut up this world and free it from such blindness, and once and for the first time allow people to see what the chandeliers, tapestries, and paintings have been seeing.
Something so old even the rocks forget…