Page 220 - TheRedSon_PrintInterior_430pp_5.5x8.5_9-22-2019_v1
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gradually downward, gently glazed in the smolder of orange
            candlelight. My father cautioned me to mind my footing.
               But I stepped upon the hem of my night-coat enough times
            to draw criticism. “Art should fill your feet as well as your
            hands, my boy. Grace is the grammar of art. Never forget
            that.” When we reached the bottom of the stairs, I could see
            cold marble flooring, polished so completely it resembled
            grey glass. We stopped just short of a huge room, where a
            massive archway emerged from the sparkling sea of marble.
            It was like the chiseled mouth of a great whale, perpetually
            breathing orange light and threatening to swallow the world.
            “You  still  want  to  see  your  wretched  mother  and  your
            worthless brother and sister, do you?” I must have nodded,
            for we proceeded beyond the yawning archway.
               Quite  suddenly,  one  memory  cannibalized  another.  I
            could hear my mother’s voice—my  true mother, which
            should not be misinterpreted to mean my real mother. Truth
            and reality should never be confused for one another, as the
            two are often bitterest of enemies. I could hear her clearly,
            superimposed atop the memory of my father’s gallery.
            “Flesh  obligates  us,  doesn’t  it,  Vincent?  It  can  determine
            who and what our family will consist of, if you let it. It can
            force mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters upon us,
            solidifying our families as surely as a seating chart carved
            from prehistoric bone. In truth, we are not beholden to such
            conventions, as I’m sure your father has already explained
            to you. Skin can be severed, blood rechanneled, even bones
            can be broken into bridges that span worlds. We needn’t be
            troubled by the whispers of the flesh, Vincent. They are the
            bearers of half-truths and complete  lies. What is the skin
            when  compared  to  the  dreams  they  imprison? You  and  I
            have different skin, but we are closer than shadows at dusk.
            I am your true mother, Vincent. And I always will be, no
            matter what your skin may tell you.”
               My mother’s words faded into the prior memory, where
            I  stood  before  a  large  sculpture  within  my  father’s  great
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