Her mother had episodes of grandiosity and forced Maria to wear expensive dresses that were too big so that she could not go outside and play with the other children. There was never a lemonade stand and rarely were there balloons.
She sang for her lost childhood. She mourned for the birds. After spending so many years walking down dark hallways she sought the light; even as fractured as the light is. How many costumes can one person wear in a lifetime without losing their identity?
[Wounded birds flew from nest to nest seeking comfort]
Maria Callas suffered from myopia, which is why she wore welder’s goggles while sunbathing. She wrapped her neck in towels of warm lemon water. She wrapped her dreams in rags.
From a young age she imagined what love might taste like. She eventually settled on orange. The first time she felt the sting of love prick her soft petals she was overwhelmed by such a sudden sadness of loss that she remained bedridden for three days. Even the birds stopped singing.
When she sang she could feel herself falling back into herself. Only her voice had wings.
Older now and love was an illusion that often visited her on holidays. Alone, ever as ever, she began to design her death. She plucked the tar from her feathers and buried the notes from her final performance in a box with a blue velvet lining. She stepped outside on the balcony of her apartment to feel the heat of the sun on her dying face and she cried beautifully, as only she could do. A butterfly landed on her cheek and drank her tears before it fluttered away.
[Death is a dream. Who cannot live with honor must die with honor]
“Butterfly!”
She curled among her sleeping things and fluttered away.
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