María Berrío—The Dream of Flight (2019)
collage with Japanese paper and watercolor paint
[there is a photo of me lying just like this in front of my sister, hands folded over my chest and holding a bouquet of wildflowers. we’re wearing somber mouths and doll dresses. an early lesson—dead girls are so pretty. these ones look livelier, eyes open—one keeping watch while the other lifts off. the flock of scarlet ibis above flies through a plane that closes at a certain age. one night i woke to a hollowed room, my sister’s shape cut from her bed. in her own, my mother slept sprawled with her mouth flung open—a void i could fly into. i remember thinking how free she seemed. i knew not to wake her, knew where my sister was. she’d spilled out into the dark, as she did sometimes, still believing she could leave her body for a while. yesterday nineteen children were murdered under one roof. angels, people will say, gifting them flight in death. then we’ll sit and wait for the next. when my niece asks about dying, my sister can only find heaven on her tongue. the beauty of watercolor is like transfusion. the sky seeps into the girls’ skin—one way to take flight. in their blanket, little portals. like most girls, we were taught not to walk at night. taught that our bodies sow risk in darkness. behind our living room’s picture window, i watched for my sister’s silhouette until the light began to leak from my head. by the time she appeared, her face pale green under the streetlamps, i was asleep again.]
