I found the small bottle in a scattering on the ground, flung from a bursting of luggage. It had a round bulb body that I cupped my palm around, curling my hand to make it small enough to support the tiny thing. First I saw that it was almost empty and the lid was missing. Then I saw the breakage around the lip and I mourned the loss, the oil and the bottle and the lid. The carelessness. Such soft sweetness, vanilla.
The goddess is in the sweetness. And in the fragileness and the sharp edges and the clear bulb that changes the light. The delicacy, and the expanse of white linoleum. She is the travel itself. The goddess is in the palm that lifts and holds the broken thing, taking it back, receiving it in, claiming it all, the sweetness and the effort that cast it out and broke the lip and lost the lid and spilled itself across the floor. All of it, all of it is her.
I am in her hands. Light passes through me. Sweetness thrills the air.