Beatrice in Texas

Beatrice in Texas


He said:
'When I first saw her I was nineteen,
her brother's friend, visiting from college.
She was only fifteen then.
I looked up as she came down the stairs,
in salmon-colored shorts and a white, ruffled blouse.
There she was, with her dark hair
and her pale skin,
her deep eyes:
she was all shining.

But... I never said it to her.
We went on.
We married other people.
Years later, I called to tell her
that I had given my daughter her name.
She laughed, and told me
the name of her son.'

He had lived a lot.
The intervening decades had traced
joy and regret and contemplation, equally,
across his face.
But when he spoke of her,
I saw the girl herself,
hesitating, barefoot on the staircase,
in shorts that were not pink or peach, but salmon,
with her slender arm framed by a ruffled sleeve
as she held the banister.
Her presence blossomed, luminous,
in his eyes.
She was still his epiphany,
as he stood talking to a stranger
in a crowded room, and he was
all shining.




Sarah Unsworth MacMillan
2009