I had just left Phoebe in her room with the lights off.
Walking home I felt the way I did when I first began to
grow tall. (I was a freshman in high school when I had,
all of the sudden, to look down on everybody. I
remember feeling strangely weakened by it.)

Phoebe was in bed where I left her, limelighted by the
moon. Piece by piece I started to build a picture in my
head. The shutters were wide open and her face was tilted
toward them like a flower blooming at night. She was
dreaming, and harvesting her dreams, so that she could
tell me about them in the morning. This had bored me
until I learned to look through them like windows into
rooms she wouldn't open for me.

I filled in Phoebe's bed and the high ceiling with quick
mental strokes. Then I drew her house and the block where
she played. I sketched myself in, too, moving away from
her like a radar blip. I finished with the cat, the moon,
and the night: they had all been arranged, in my mind,
to complement Phoebe.

Index