Don't Cry Over Spilled Water

I spilled a glass of water on my desk, and my notebook, open-mouthed, drank from it until the swollen pages stuck. Tenderly peeling each page apart, I fanned them with my thumb throughout the day and later bore the book upstairs and aimed the hot breath of the blue blow dryer on it.

I thought I preferred those first pristine pages, remembering how, eyes closed, my pen could glide precisely as shining blades on ice. But now there are crags to climb -- the buckled paper contains lakes of stains to cross. To write here is to tread deep into Hansel and Gretel's dark forest. To dance with a bear, the scent of blood and blackberries on its breath, to palm the warm apricots and plums bartered for at Christina's Goblin Market, to put them in my mouth, between teeth and tongue, then face the flowering of fangs and stars.