Winter snow sauntered from heaven, finding rest upon gelid soil. Bulbs of golden light hung from eaves sparkling with winter's kiss. My parents had brooked my incessant pleas, and assured me that if my behavior permitted, my reward would be nestled among the fragrant boughs of the pine that had sprung from our living-room floor. The twenty-fifth came, the packages arrived. Glee filled my body like warm libations.

The year those gifts were given has passed away, the gifts carried away in its wake. One object remains; only one has dug its glossy nails deep enough, deep enough to withstand the unrelenting tug that washes all things into oblivion.

She arose from her shell like Venus from the bubbling surf. As my squat digits caressed her porcelain visage, a small fire kindled within my gut. Her amber tresses glistened like sap congealed by summer's embrace.

*

Eyes. Nacreous orbs floating in the distance, their reflections cast in placid waters. Skin cool to the touch, drained of its lifeblood. Sugared lips blazing, poised for utterance but forever bound.

I longed to grasp Eve's apple, to take lusty bites and savor its forbidden nectar. The face, pressed to my own, whispered words of solace, its frigid heart aching, its silent beating keeping pace with my own.

She had no name, no self. I was Lord; her rigid body lived in my garden, the garden that she made Eden. Meeting her empty gaze, I knew that I held the breath of life.

I fashioned her as my whims determined; my will gave her shape. She beckoned me to the closet where she slumbered, and legs, too long for my age, carried me to her chambers. Enveloped by yielding flesh, the knob turned, sighing in reservation, allowing her a moment more of rest. Parting the sheer veil of our separation, I brought her forth.

*

I sent her to battle demons in shrouded dimensions. She flew over windblown pastures, over the sea, coasting above roiling tides. She wielded powers beyond my ever-extending, ever-straining reach, harnessing them with wisdom and grace. Her palm could quell the storm and raise the dead.

She wore skirts, and heels, and was never rid of the blush on her cheekbones. Her eyelids shone like spring violets. She did what her desires deemed, and stigma withered in her presence. No one glanced her way as she clipped on earrings, no one quivered as a dress flowed about her ankles. When she ran to the dress-up box and donned a tutu, no breath escaped her mother's lips. She had no mother. Though her identity shifted like the desert's landscape, it was immoveable as Olympus.

She felt no shame, only pride, and unlike Hector, Achilles would never come seeking her demise. Throngs of beaming friends encircled her daily, all vying for a mere glance.

My compatriots spoke a language carried from foreign ports, a tongue that was harsh, and terse, and guttural. Baseballs sailed from their clutches.

I surveyed them with eyes slightly crossed, teetering on unfortified earth. I wore unseen glasses smudged with pigment only I could behold, marks only I could wipe away.

I yearned to be like her, to unbind my shackles and mount the most imperious Redwoods. But my hands were akin to buttered biscuits just pulled from the oven's heat. I could scale no trees; I could throw no balls; I walked the bases.

*

The planet spun on its axis, and fall gave way to winter. More gifts came, only to be plucked away by time's greedy fingers.

She remained.

No avarice coaxed my spirit; if I had her, contentment would rule. I was in her and she was in me, and all the while we waltzed, far, far away.

*

By the time of her exile, I had grown taller. The pajamas I had worn on the day of her arrival no longer fit my sweeping limbs. We had grown together, though she faster than I. Her face had grown dirty, her body limp. Her hair, which once cascaded down her back, had shortened.

Before her departure, I hope that I clutched her to my chest once more, I hope that I clutched her, and that I thanked her. I hope that I touched her flesh with my own, that I traced the curve of her lips, the arch of her brow, her lofty cheeks. Did I receive forgiveness? I hope that I met her eyes once more; eyes so distant, their gaze constant, unwavering.

A home was purchased to serve as her quarters, but she never napped within its orchid walls. The seal of its box was never broken. Her shoebox sufficed. She would lie among her garments like a fugitive stowed in the attic. There she slept until the day she went away, cast from her warm bed into the jaws of a beast, to be whisked away forever. Helen was gone; Troy burned. Yet time quenches all fires.