I have been trying to meet up with May, but she is hard to pin down.
She feels like a suitcase packed and ready, the night before departure, like fairgrounds in the dawn, a dancer poised in position behind a curtain not yet lifted. I think all the pieces are in place, everything is ready and waiting to begin.
What if she never steps forward? Never talks to me? What if this month alone of the twelve remains a gap, a silence? What if all there is is me here waiting?
I see one small four-petalled flower in long blond hair, the palest pink. It is my hair. It is not my hair. I see white skirts spread in the grass, a fair face, a dimpled smile. I am a little sheepish at this representation that feels so storybook. She says, “How you prepare determines what will come. How you set the stage determines the action.”
While I am watching, her porcelain complexion transforms into a wolf’s face. The dress falls off her. She trots into the wood. I hesitate, and then I follow. She leads me deep into the darkness, around a small hill, through crowded trunks and out into a clearing where a beam of sunlight falls like a spotlight, highlighting nothing in particular, a waiting. I stand and watch the spot.
The wolf says, “While you are waiting, it’s already begun all around you. The big show is just a decoy. The real story is already unfolding, on the sidelines, behind the scenes.”
There are creatures moving through the trees. I can see their eyes. They step softly, knowing what they are about. It is a mystery to me. I turn my attention to the wolf and she falls to a pile of fur and bones. I step closer to look and see among the remains the golden ring, token of an abandoned promise. I take it back. I slip it on my finger. From the scatter of bones I gather up two to beat myself a rhythm. I begin to play the bones.
May says: “You are the one you’ve been waiting for. Look, you have hands. Look, you have feet. What are you waiting for? You’re on. Go. Go!”