The Seven Veils of Soul

More about The Seven Veils of Soul

She lived among seven veils and flowers so small they seemed to have been planted by someone who was apologizing.

The first veil was her name.

Her mother had given it to her before knowing who would arrive to wear it. Sometimes she hung it over a chair and spent the afternoon unnamed.

The second veil was childhood.

It smelled of warm dust and a garden hose. Behind it, a little girl was still waiting for somebody to admire a stone she had found.

The stone was nothing special.

Neither was the waiting, except that it had lasted thirty years.

The third veil was love.

Pale pink. Almost weightless.

There was a man inside it who had once touched her shoulder as though checking whether summer had ended. She could no longer remember his face, but the shoulder remembered everything.

The fourth veil was sorrow.

She washed it on Sundays.

It never dried completely. By Wednesday, small white flowers would appear along the damp hem. She stopped trying to explain them to visitors.

The fifth veil was the future.

For years she had mistaken it for a window.

She stood before it with her coat on, holding tickets to places that had quietly ceased to exist.

One afternoon she put the tickets in a drawer.

The coat lasted another winter.

The sixth veil was silence.

Through it she could hear the flowers making more flowers. It was slow work. Nobody applauded.

She sat with them until dark.

The seventh veil was so transparent that she had forgotten it was there.

She found its edge one morning while brushing her hair.

“Are you the soul?” she asked.

The veil moved a little in the breeze from the open door.

She took it down and folded it carefully. There was no one waiting behind it. Only the room, the flowers, and a patch of sunlight where she could put her bare feet.

In the kitchen, water was beginning to boil.

She went to turn it off, carrying the folded veil under one arm.