The Most Beautiful Thing in the World
by Margaret Emma Brandl
The most beautiful thing in the world is an elephant made of lapis lazuli, not even a full inch tall. Most days a girl carries it in the pocket of her dress, brushing her fingers across it whenever she gets nervous. She knows not to show it to anyone else, especially not at school, so she has to be quick about sticking her hands in her pocket. She has to be natural. She has to be careful not to swing too high on the swings, has to pretend she’s brushing the dirt off her uniform in order to quickly pat her leg, to make sure the elephant is still there. She takes it out when she gets home, only for minutes at a time, to place it on the windowsill beside her bed. She studies it: the tiny, perfect curve of its trunk; the way the lapis lazuli mottles blue and white; the delicate fluttering shape of its ear; the gradual flared shape of legs to feet. She takes it to supper with her, takes it outside with her, takes it to the library with her. She leaves it home when she goes to church. It doesn’t make sense, to hear that the love of some God is the most beautiful thing when she already has the most beautiful thing in the world, already rolls it around on her palm when she’s feeling indulgent. When she gets home from church she runs to check on it, to assure herself of it, opening the bottom drawer of her nightstand to find its blue among sharpened pencils, pink erasers, paper clips. It changes in the light: the elephant in morning isn’t the same as the elephant in the afternoon, or evening, or the dead of night; but it always feels the same in her fingers. It retains coolness. It is both heavy and light to the touch, like a seashell. Like a radish. Like an acorn with a cap. The day she can’t find it is the day the street floods, houses just around the corner down the hill half-submerged. When she cries, her parents don’t understand it’s an apology. The enormity of her responsibility almost crushes her, great heaving gasps so bad her ribs hurt; it rains for weeks, unforgiving. The drains aren’t quick enough. The levee can’t hold. Then she finds the elephant, rolled in an accidental bunch of sheets at the foot of her bed. The sun comes out; the storm diverts; the forecasters call it a miracle. The girl plays with the elephant in her pocket, running her fingers over its smooth surface, memorizing it with her fingers like a smoky glass marble. Like a planet. Like a perfect baby tooth.
