Newsletter of the

Society

Volume 12; November 2005

Katherine Anne Porter's Secret

By Carolyn Kreiter-Foronda

Come into the library, he said, and I will show
you Katherine Anne's secret. Among the rare
books the coffin stood on end, six feet of pine

painted Mexican style. I'll never forget
the decorative reds that rose to greet us.
Staring at the private box, I imagined her

lighting one last lamp before stepping in,
those violet eyes alert, her white hair
turning black in burial flames.

When I die, I will have the coffin
and linen sheet ready, she told a friend
one February, the plate-glass windows

of her apartment rattled by wind, her voice
shrill, determined. I watched the pine box
change into a ship headed from Veracruz

to Bremerhaven. She curled within it,
searching for a sign. May I stand in it?
I asked, touching the coffin.

My friend ran his fingers over
the long brass hinges, opened the lid.
Unafraid, I stepped in. My mind raced

back fourteen years to a room filled
with caskets where Father and I selected
a blue one for Mother. I realized then

that death can hold us for only a second
before disappearing, Mother's spirit
having risen out of my dream the night

she died. We control our souls, she said
once, rocking on the porch swing.
For years I held onto her words.

I pressed my body against the coffin's
walls, hoping to leave an impression full
of flight like the snow angels I had made

as a child. The afternoon filtered in,
my eyes refocusing on brass fittings
and plain wood. I stepped back into

the room, rested my hand on the smooth
lid, closed it gently. Katherine Anne died
the next month. That night at home, I lit all

the lamps, rose the next morning to find only
one still burning. As I leaned down to turn
it off, my eyes caught in the mirror a figure

draped in Liège linen. The face warmed
the darkness, then vanished. All morning
I read her stories in strong daylight.