Frida dreams of walking the Paseo de la Reforma in purpledlight, fingers spread across her pregnant belly like the thin branches of jacaranda, unaware that death will claim her children.
She dreams of the white vinegar scent in her father’s darkroom, the murmur of her mother’s prayers. She is young, light-hearted, surrounded by her sisters. She is whole, but not for long.
She dreams of lips bruised blue, the men and women who speak of love in Russian, Japanese, and English too. And there is Diego, of course, whispering in the tongue of heartache.
She dreams of windows on the bus, the leaves of ash trees turning black against the setting sun, until the crash, the shattering glass. And afterward, she remembers only pain.
She dreams of Casa Azul, its yellow table, azure plates and crimson cups, her books, paints, brushes, and the iron ribs of her wheelchair all turned to dross, but when she wakes, there is art.
This story appeared at Ekphrastic Journal as a published response to a prompt on January 15, 2021