All the World Is Blind
Inspired by the poetry and life of Amy Levy, this fictional memoir sample blends historical context with imagined interiority. It is not intended as biography.
White lilies and pink roses, waxy apples and bruised pears. I circled the purple wine ring on the tablecloth, feeling the woodgrain beneath. A large fruit bowl sat in the center. Gooseberries, plums, and cherries. Summer lived on. My untouched dinner sat before me: roasted beef, potatoes, and turnips. It was overshadowed by a vase of geraniums, pansies, and forget-me-nots. Petals and stems, thorns and leaves, I could hardly see her.
Wine and laughter flowed, grandly, quickly, like a river rushing off to its next destination. Gaped mouths and white teeth. Gossip snaked from mouth to ear, weaseling its way into pliant, voracious minds. I strove to collect my own thoughts, placing bricks, one by one, building a wall that even the tiniest invertebrate couldn’t worm through.
I gazed across the table, catching her glance through the floral thicket. A smile. Worlds away she felt, except even so, my body felt a warmth only saved for those who were truly seen.
Chatter and laughter filled my brain. It poured and poured and poured, until it overflowed, running down my head, down my face, filling my ears and nose and mouth. I held my breath. All that was around, I felt myself still, lifeless, stuck. An ant swimming through honey. I gasped. There wasn’t enough air in the world to satiate me.
But when her eyes met mine, this world ceased to exist. Chatter hushed. Movement slowed. We began to dance. Our hearts conjoined—like two angels swaying above the table. What we saw, what we felt, it was only ours. Like a secret, only for us to know, we held it like a precious lip-stained letter to our chests. Could this be forever?
Last night, I dreamt she was dead. O God, what a dream! Her mother hung over the couch, curled in on herself, weeping as she stared down at her lifeless child. Skin pearly white, lilies were woven in her hair. Standing in the doorway, I watched her from afar—much like I do now, from across the table, fruit and flowers between us. I didn’t dare approach her to kiss her lips and brow. In sleep, I had no part or feeling for her. Even Death himself could not break open my cage.
The scent of an orange filled my nose, its zesty happiness dancing around the room. I felt it in my bones, somehow. Vitality now returned to me, I picked a cherry from the fruit bowl. Her eyes on me, this summer sweetness, was this heaven? Could I stay forever?
How lucky I am that my real life is sweeter than my dreams! I woke this morning with a grateful heart, knowing I would see her later. In that moment, as I laid wrapped in white sheets, I curled into the realization that perhaps being awake was kinder than being asleep. I know not all can say the same. I know how lucky I am.
There was once a time I may have longed to share, to speak of my feelings loud and bold, but now, as I hold her gaze, softly and carefully, I am grateful only I know. Who am I to complain? All to myself, I’ve been gifted this late summer feeling, held safely against my heart.
In such a dull world, it’s no wonder they cannot see. With empty hearts, how could they see a love so grand it blinds even the holiest of all?
And so when I look to her, over the fruit and flowers, and when she meets my gaze, her face soft, with a nearly imperceptible smile, I take a breath, breathing in the sweetness of a truth held closely. It is ours. May we find each other over and over again in every lifetime.
I can already see us, perhaps a hundred years from now, sitting at a table that is ours, where nothing stands between us as we sit, hands interlocked over the tablecloth. I hear my voice carry softly across the table:
Violet, will you dance with me?
Sources & Influences:
At a Dinner Party (Poem by Amy Levy)
On the Threshold (Poem by Amy Levy)