A BRIDGE OF BREATH
569
There stands a chum that has not turned for years.
And behold a group of dolls, limp and dignified, like ancestors
sitting together; and some blueing bottles filled with gentian light;
and a small tarnished silver key. Away
in
the farthest end of the loft
a big rusted tusk of a plow curves out of the shadow.
The loot of the loft lies like treasure in some thief's lair, and the
thief
is
everywhere so powerfully present I can feel
him
gathering
and fumbling and destroying. Yet all
is
so silent, except for a tinkling
and occasional shiftings like a page turned in a book.
And then I find the two chests that belonged to you. On the
outside is printed Gayety Shows and Company. Inside I find out
your whole secret.
Inside is a corroded violin whose bow has molded strings furred
with ravelling, like a rat of hair; some peeling gilded tapshoes whose
taps are thin from much dancing. And false faces, with tragic-gay
bent down eyes, women's wigs, tubes of make-up grease, and spangles
spilled over the clothes like dried fishscales. And there are fringed
gypsy shawls, and scarves, crimson and jacinth and one green as a
ragged peacock. I touch a scarf and it falls into air and light and
seems to evanesce. And there is a yellow glove and here is a Man–
darin's lavish emerald-mauve gown with sleeves hanging like pointed
ass's ears, with intricate work of golden braid laid tarnished over the
hem.
And here is a crushed paper bird on a stick.
Sifted all among the treasures of the chests are letters and photo–
graphs of many beautiful played-out people, like lost cards, dealt
and used for win or loss and cast aWay.
At the end of the loft room is an old dresser with a swung
mirror. I go there. On the dresser is a pincushion made like a tomato,
a mending box full of buttons, a cameo box of beads and cameos and
bracelets and balls of faded yam. Spiders and dust have claimed them
all. Next to the dresser is an old ruptured and gutted chair.
"I give you this glass," Folner's voice whispers, "in which to
see a vision of yourself, for this is why you've come. My breath is on
the glass and you must wipe away my breath to see your own image."
In the mirror I cannot see myself but only an image of dust. I brush
it off-and then see my portrait there. For a moment I look like
Folner! Age and time have blown their rheumy breath on the mirror
