Outside her window the last snow of the season is white only until it touches the pavement. Freeda’s thoughts are her thoughts only until they reach the cloudy pane of glass where they expire silently, damp as tears, like snow against asphalt.
To believe who she is Freeda must go backward, must retreat, her voice slowly unwinding, slowly dismantling itself, her voice going backward with her, alone with her as the inevitable silence envelops. Talking to herself. Telling stories. Telling herself.
from Damballah by John Edgar Wideman