Aidan San Francisco — 1985 Mother

Aidan has made another delivery. That night behind closed eyes, a beautiful pale woman cradles Aidan in her arms. He is small and brilliant as a distant star. She gazes at him with eyes green as emeralds, green as longing, green as spring.

Awakening in the dawn, his orchids’ stems, leaves and buds are suddenly alive with color. His spectrum is almost complete. The rainbow, that promise of hope that sign of continuance has begun to arch into his soul. But the color is still separated between the black lines of his existence.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Ryan asks. Even though he knows Aidan cannot hear him, even though he knows he is talking to himself.

“The Buddha said, ‘If we could see the miracle of a single flower clearly, our whole life would change.’ I think that’s true in a way. Not that you are seeing clearly. All those black lines dividing color like leaded glass, they’re in your head, not in the flower. Still, we mostly see what’s inside ourselves.