Naphtalia Is White

Entering her quarters at the end of the long apartment hall, Naphtalia sinks into the whiteness of it all.  Simplicity.  “Simply be,” the white walls coo to her.

Naphtalia sets her house-flips in the foyer closet, closes the heavy white doors, and sits on the single white letto made up with white linen sheets and cushions.  The white indoor shutters are closed and the silver locks offer a small, honest shimmer to the room.  It’s as if the hardware wants to sincerely let her know this room is special and specialness will come from it.

Naphtalia begins to listen.

The bored white, linen-draped chair in the corner of the room has something to say.  “Although I am bored for lack of use, if you ever need me, I’m here.”

Naphtalia’s white, cream, and grey clothes rest comfortably in the white drawers and closet.  None of them wish to lay out on the bed and disturb the white peace of the room.  This is especially true of the four bright dresses hanging in the closet and the handful of black tank tops.  “Please, don’t put us on display,” they beg, “Simplicity is so much nicer and better for you, my dear.”

“Alright,” Naphtalia sighs, “Tutto posto.”

The children are asleep next door and Vin and Amore have fed the rest of the family.  The bar has been visited and the e-mails checked.  Even the latest book has been read.  There is nothing left to do tonight.

With legs criss-crossed, Naphtalia breathes deeply.  In.  Out.  Ancorra.  In.  Out.

There is nothing left to do, but melt the day away until the entire body and soul are set aright again.  Set white, simple, pure.  It is time to wash out the spirit, to rid it of the dusty, muddy kicks of life.

Breathing in–the spirit water shushes down.  Breathing out–the spirit water rings and turns through the drain.  The dirty day descends and the clean, true spirit remains.

All is shiny, even the liver.  Naphtalia’s humble organs offer thanks for the day, put themselves in place, then lie down to rest.

On Naphtalia’s heart lies a shiny, silver lock–a song of specialness.  “I am here and I am special.  I am simply me, simply, spectacularly, especially me.  I am white.”

At the end of the long, white, apartment hall, Naphtalia sleeps, dreaming of simplicity.