The Problem with Helen

The problem with Helen started early on. I caught sight of her and couldn’t tell a lie from the truth. Mother said she was a myth, father nodded gravely, and my 5th grade teacher, who dangled whimsically between one end of the blackboard and the other, said that ideas had to be celebrated. I set my eyes on the vales and peaks, the plateaus of slate roofs, and read and read, how maidens with harebells steal reason, and thinking that if there ever was a Helen among them, and if there ever was a chance to make her a life companion, how that glimpse, burning with the determination of a restless hand on a beloved neck would be there too for the right judge to apprehend.