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Nissa dreams of kingship.
In her dream she is the lord of a city, a bright city on a hill, and in the morning the light touches first on her window in the high tower of the palace at the top of the ridge, and slips down to light the harbor by the time she stops working to take the time to break her fast. In the dream she rises, takes the heavy, rough mug that holds her morning cider, and goes down the hill.
The city is built in half rings on the hillside. She follows them down. A beggar stops her. She stands and talks to him, and touches him and he says he feels lighter. He will not take her cider. He laughs at her, calls her a good child, sends her on. There are people crying and she follows them, a child takes her hand and says her mother is sick please help please and she cannot tell where the ground is, or where her feet are. It is a wonder she does not fall. But she goes to the mother. She prays. She prays and she takes the hand the mother holds out to her, and then the mother is pulling back, using her grip to raise herself to her feet, laughing, saying, “What a king we have,” and Nissa feels as lost in that small room as she felt in the palace, where there are many rooms, and the floors are smooth, and she makes very certain to breathe deep on the stairs and always brace one hand against the wall, because it is a sin to wish to stumble.
It is awfully difficult to make yourself breakfast when you’re afraid to touch your knives, or your stove, or your oven, and that is why Nissa is sitting in Sanford’s Diner in the early morning, nursing coffee while she waits for her eggs and pancakes. She is hoping the food will make her feel better, and so will reading both the Bible open on the table in front of her, and the NAMI pamphlet open in her lap.
In her dream she is the lord of a city, a bright city on a hill, and in the morning the light touches first on her window in the high tower of the palace at the top of the ridge, and slips down to light the harbor by the time she stops working to take the time to break her fast. In the dream she rises, takes the heavy, rough mug that holds her morning cider, and goes down the hill.
The city is built in half rings on the hillside. She follows them down. A beggar stops her. She stands and talks to him, and touches him and he says he feels lighter. He will not take her cider. He laughs at her, calls her a good child, sends her on. There are people crying and she follows them, a child takes her hand and says her mother is sick please help please and she cannot tell where the ground is, or where her feet are. It is a wonder she does not fall. But she goes to the mother. She prays. She prays and she takes the hand the mother holds out to her, and then the mother is pulling back, using her grip to raise herself to her feet, laughing, saying, “What a king we have,” and Nissa feels as lost in that small room as she felt in the palace, where there are many rooms, and the floors are smooth, and she makes very certain to breathe deep on the stairs and always brace one hand against the wall, because it is a sin to wish to stumble.
It is awfully difficult to make yourself breakfast when you’re afraid to touch your knives, or your stove, or your oven, and that is why Nissa is sitting in Sanford’s Diner in the early morning, nursing coffee while she waits for her eggs and pancakes. She is hoping the food will make her feel better, and so will reading both the Bible open on the table in front of her, and the NAMI pamphlet open in her lap.