Diane Raptosh
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GREAT BOOKS
My father made furniture. Weekends, he'd often bring home from work lumpish
stacks of patterned fabric swatches, layers fanning and swaying: a grand
behemoth--cloth pages bound each to the next with what looked to be gold
hoop nose-rings the size of a large knee. The fabrics, textures spanning
sepal tongue to rough skinned newt and hemmed tight as hot pads, bore
intricate names on tags pinned at the lower right edge, lovely and cryptic
as shells that grow off the lips of most land snails: lunar ochre,
perpendicular peach, and oblivion verdigris. In the living room under
changing conditions of color and light, concentrating through the sides of
his eyes and watching partly with his mouth, he'd study each bolt of fabric.
Without warning, he'd take up a square of something like vagabond blue and
dress up a wingback chair or an ottoman or dangle it over his thighs and
dance brightly, humming some lush scene at the far edge of the tongue.
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