One Sunday, I went to see if she needed help. I could be the one at least to pass the empty needle across the apostles on her back. Lola handed me the armature. She was quiet, just swinging one dear decorated foot to the needle-whirr and eating rock candy. Quiet was fine. I knew her and she knew me. After a while, other faces appeared and other flowers grew and other flags waved on Lola. And, when I looked down at her lovely leg, I saw a face I knew. The blind Indian was drawn above her ankle just as clear and true as a photograph. As she flexed her little foot, he raised his reed and the illustrated basket opened. Instead of a cobra uncurling to the imaginary music, a flurry of hearts and stars emerged. They drifted up the curve of her calf and under her robe where I could not see. Then Lola’s own silhouette, which I’d recognize in any form, arose from the basket, each fine finger curled and coaxing the drawn Indian. The real Lola was blushing. That much I could still see, her rosy hue cast across every story she wore.