soffia’s at home in her cozy ripply-iron clad house washing dishes. she’s put the dishwashing liquid in a small plastic pump bottle that used to have vanilla-scented hand soap in it. instead of throwing the bottle away when the soap was done she put it to good use by the sink, since the economy-size jug of blue liquid she bought on special was really too cumbersome to be functional. soffia likes functional things, likes to consider herself a functional beast, moving through the spaces of her existence with grace and purpose.
she has no lack of form, and is actually as beautiful as a blooming rose. but like a rose her exquisiteness is a product of surviving in the world, of adapting over time the best possible design for maximum life. like a bloom there has never been forethought, only minuscule developmental changes over the years; millions of years for the flower, millions of moments for soffia as she breathes and dies and is reborn. she is subtly aware the she is in a process of constant mutation, and that she is the result of all that she has encountered.
she knows that she will never be a completed thing, but that she will evolve until she crashes finally into death, or slips slowly away. she is functional because she understands that she needs to keep contained. if she is a rose, she is a creamy, pink-tinged hothouse one with a strong stem and few but dangerous thorns. if she hadn't learned early on to pace her progress, she would have blossomed voraciously long ago then fallen recklessly apart, only spikes remaining on a parched stalk. her instinct toward self-preservation has developed a humility in soffia which, coupled with a sensuous grace, has kept her fresh long after others have bloomed and faded. she has the freshness of the island on her cheeks, and the warm cream skin of a young girl.
one night at a pub, out with her girlfriends, she found herself being chatted up by an american, a hot shot NYC type who very succinctly described himself as “good-looking, healthy, making six figures.” soffia didn’t encourage him, she simply stood where she had been standing all along and let him talk at her. she had the charming, slightly bemused expression on her face, the kind a hostess holds for her lesser-known guests, and nodded appropriately as the young man tried out his come-on.
she knows that she will never be a completed thing, but that she will evolve until she crashes finally into death, or slips slowly away. she is functional because she understands that she needs to keep contained. if she is a rose, she is a creamy, pink-tinged hothouse one with a strong stem and few but dangerous thorns. if she hadn't learned early on to pace her progress, she would have blossomed voraciously long ago then fallen recklessly apart, only spikes remaining on a parched stalk. her instinct toward self-preservation has developed a humility in soffia which, coupled with a sensuous grace, has kept her fresh long after others have bloomed and faded. she has the freshness of the island on her cheeks, and the warm cream skin of a young girl.
one night at a pub, out with her girlfriends, she found herself being chatted up by an american, a hot shot NYC type who very succinctly described himself as “good-looking, healthy, making six figures.” soffia didn’t encourage him, she simply stood where she had been standing all along and let him talk at her. she had the charming, slightly bemused expression on her face, the kind a hostess holds for her lesser-known guests, and nodded appropriately as the young man tried out his come-on.
soffia found it nearly impossible to be rude, and generally took no offense in the eagerness of men to know her. she often felt like she was doing them a favor, helping them to firm up their rap so that it might work on the next girl. she wasn't a tease by any respect, and somehow managed to make the men feel better about themselves for having been politely turned down by her.
in this case, the young man was quick to understand her. he stopped his banter mid-sentence, took one step back and gazed a long second into her face. “you'll always be beautiful, won’t you?” he said admiringly. soffia felt a blush rise to her cheeks but did not look away. “ yes,” she whispered, and smiled in return for his complement. he looked as though he wanted to take her face in his hands and kiss her deeply, but nodded and lifted his glass to her instead, catching on to the warmth and humor of the situation. he was pleased to have been able to complement so lovely a thing.
washing up now, soffia wonders at the immensity of moments in which nothing at all seems to be happening. she strokes the brush in a circle over the dish in her hand, spiraling in toward the center, then rinses with the almost too hot water and puts the dish in the wooden foldout rack. she puts her hands on the edge of the sink and tilts her head slightly to the right, letting the water run. she listens for some kind of knowledge, some explanation of all the seemingly unused little bubbles of time she lives through. she has a purpose, there is a reason why she unfolds so slowly and surely. she does not doubt. but she’s curious as to what her function is in the greater scheme, for whom she is being instructed and defined. she picks up the brush again and finishes the few glasses left in the sink. she turns off the water, wipes down the counter, and folds the dishcloth, knowing that she is part of some unintelligible and overwhelming whole.
© Madia (Maria Alva Roff) 2005
