You wear the crown of the pillow queen, my lover said to me the first time we awakened together. She had

expressions like that for everything, and I thought, how lovely, to be able to stitch together the events of one’s days with words that sing.

Our nights were filled with these songs, just as her name sang on my tongue; to be able to see the world through a prism of language that

confers dignity on it. And I, for whom words are my daily bread, was left speechless by her voice. Speechless by everything,

were I to tell the truth, for her world perceptions were simple: we make our own happiness, we find our own joy, and I think of my mother

drinking behind a closed door, forever angry, forever disappointed, and I wonder what she would have made of my lover, this woman who decided on her own

what to get out of life. Life happened to my mother, and she blamed it on those around her, including her child. We all carry the scars

of our pasts, it’s just that some of us carry them more lightly than others. My lover said that people don’t fit into boxes, they must be experienced

and accepted and I wondered how much of her wisdom I’d absorb. The French city where I grew up, its constant reminders of old pain

and old alliances and how many times does a person need to say she’s sorry before she can forgive herself? But in the darkness and warmth

of my lover’s room all hurts could be forgiven, where sweet flesh was the offering made to the goddesses of love and gentle kisses dispelled the coldness

of the world outside, where my wild messy hair could have conferred on it words of beauty and pleasure and life could be faced

with an equally wild and messy optimism that can enable someone to see a crown where others see only tangles.