Free On Little Wings by Regina Sirois Page B

tiny bumps of raised flesh on my arms.
    “It is so beautiful,” I said at last. The words Truth is Beauty, and Beauty Truth leaped into my mind. I stepped outside, trying to remember who said it. Emerson? That didn’t sound right. Not Shelley. Regardless, I never agreed with it before. I can’t say I agreed with it in that moment, either, but it pierced my mind, cutting away all other thoughts. Truth is Beauty. Beauty is Truth. I met Sarah’s curious eyes over the hood of the car, watching her watch me. Somewhere in this beauty, I would meet the truth.

CHAPTER 10
     
    I followed Sarah to the front door, my suitcase bouncing over the gravel driveway and clumping against the wooden porch steps. Before we reached the door handle there was a rustling from the yard and I turned to see a medium-sized dog burst from the forest and race across the yard.
    “Don’t be scared,” Sarah said, “that’s just Charlie, my mutt.” The dog reached us in less than two seconds and began a frantic dance on his back paws as his tongue waved indiscriminately, looking for exposed skin. “Charlie, sit! Sit down!” Sarah yelled, pushing his bottom rudely to the porch planks, where he commenced wagging his entire body back and forth in glee. “Sorry about that.”
    Charlie’s short white hair was only interrupted by a large, black patch that encircled half of his head, including one dark eye and a floppy ear. “He’s friendly,” I said, wondering if petting him on the head would calm him or just increase the hysterics.
    “He’s crazy,” Sarah said, affection tinting the insult. She looked at him sternly, “You behave. Be still.” Charlie’s head tilted intently each time she spoke. When Sarah was sure he wasn’t going to jump back up she turned to me. “Now, let’s try this again.”
    She pushed the front door and stepped back as it swung open. The first thing I saw was a kaleidoscope of deep, but faded colors from the Oriental rug laid over the honey colored, wood floors. Then the walls, covered in black shelves crammed with books of every size, color and condition. The books stopped only for the large stone fireplace and the tall windows on either side of it. Marooned in the middle of the room was a slouchy, white sofa and chair arranged around a shining brown coffee table. A single, twisted piece of driftwood sat atop a large book on the wooden table. Charlie charged a large, orange cat who arched his back and rose from his sleeping spot on a cushion. One hiss later, the exuberant dog stopped and dropped to his haunches.
    “That’s Chester, our resident grouch. He only loves us when he wants to,” Sarah said. My jaw dropped open as I stared across the room to the most astonishing feature –a mural only God could paint. The windows framed a rim of stubborn trees at the edge of the yard that thinned to brush, then to glossy gray and black boulders and at last to patches of thin, high grass and sand the color of tin. The ocean had long ago carved a tiny bay with her continuous shoving of foamy white waves and the effect stole my breath.
    I had the sudden impulse to touch everything: the hand cut planks of the floors, the thick wooden banister at the foot of the staircase, the velvety smooth piece of driftwood, even the panes of glass in the window. I felt like a blind person in a gallery of sculptures. My fingers folded into claws as I restrained them. I didn’t speak, my eyes too hungry to share my brain with my mouth. Framed photos cluttered the muted, yellow wall of the stairway. I wanted to run to them, but I forced my feet to walk at an acceptable pace. “Who are they?” I asked as I stood before the multitude of strange faces.
    “It would take all night to name all of them,” Sarah said casting her eyes up to the last of the pictures at the top of the steep staircase and back down again. “Besides, I don’t know all of them. My mom put most of these up. This is her - your grandmother, Hazel.” She pointed to