Kiri's eyes are sunken, shy, leaning back in their pits. They no longer pierce with the certainty of youth, darting here and there, inspecting the world, asking questions with a glance. Her face is wan, it looks as though it has been drained. The vitality that used to animate appears to have escaped, like a rat leaving a sinking ship, a cruel blow from a friend with whom a whole life had been shared.
A scab has invaded her nose, a weeping sore that began as a scratch, it has spread and lodged itself their, dulling the beauty that she once possessed. She walks with a hunch now, bent over and hobbled, leaning a little to the left, an unseemly punishment for one who had moved with so much grace. At her peak she shone with grace, she reflected the sun's admiration, bouncing in tune with the rays.
Boy, could she move. She was a melody, a pure tone, she was Art Tatum's fingers caressing the ivory, a controlled frenzy of fury and joy, as intimidating as beautiful. She's quiet now. The beat of her heart has receded, from Vivace, to Andante, and now Grave. She sleeps the days away, and, when she does murmur, it is plaintiff, resigned.
Resting in my lap, breathing with unbearable lightness, I wonder if she is dreaming. I stroke her forehead and she twitches. I can see her eyes vibrating under the lids. Maybe she is there now, back in her youth. Maybe she is nowhere, preparing for her finale. Who knows where she is, soft and peaceful, purring at infinity.
