He bought her birds and not just any type: Quail, wicker, and one from Spain.
I placed them on top a dresser in her room.
She cried.

He bought her birds and not just any type: Quail, wicker, and one from Spain.
I placed them on top a dresser in her room.
She cried.
Spring waltzes in: beautiful, hard to describe, sensual. There is something old fashioned in her grace, tender to her touch. She slips off, leaving you lost in a bed of hyacinth.
~ a dove’s call
“Children should be seen, not heard.”
She says it once, her voice stern. I notice the lock of hair that falls loose and softens her face, a strand I want to touch yet dare not. My grandmother’s hands are clasped, hiding her fingers. Fingers that will never touch my cheek or stroke my hair. A cup of tea waits to be sipped.
Fortunately for the two of us, I understand. As seasons surely change, our visits follow a predictable pattern: Cod Liver Oil, silent play, and tea time.
“The child looks sallow,” she says.
Her sister agrees. “She’s pasty.”
“Child. Step into the light.”
“The poor thing,” the aunt says. “It must come from the mother’s side.”
Two sets of eyes swallow me whole. Two heads nod in agreement. The aunt bustles for a spoon. A rattle of cutlery and the thud of a cupboard signal her reappearance. The two women coax me to open wide, their lips form key holes.
“Feed the birdie,” they chirp.
The silver spoon rises and dips, as a wounded bird mid flight. I shut my eyes and wait for the liquid to wash through the gaps between my teeth.
“Now scoot,” she says as her arm sweeps me out the back door. “Mind the cat and stay away from the Italians’ dog.”
Once outside, I’ll spit what is left into her garden. It’s almost a relief. There is no sense in tears. It’s important to please.
It won”t be long until the door opens to summon me inside. The sunroom is filled with Mason jars, some marked Nasturtium. Others house twine or buttons. I want to ignore her and wander over to a wooden table. I want to touch the cacti rooting in soup cans. Instead, I follow my grandmother to the kitchen.
” The little lady looks freckled,” the aunt comments. “Sunshine and tonic is the right mix.”
“Sit for tea,” my grandmother adds, “and remember- this isn’t a playground. There are sugar biscuits on the plate.”
Her words slide like honey and for a split second, I think I see her smile.
Our time together will suddenly end. There isn’t an official explanation. The birth of Madeline creates a fuss. Visits trickle and end on a full stop. There is never an explanation as to why two granddaughters are struck from Alice Jackson’s guest list. Perhaps the Cod Liver Oil has something to do with it.
“But she would want to see me,” I say. I repeat it and repeat it. No one listens. I am surprised by this as my father is a man of diplomacy.
“That’s the way she does things,” he says.
During our absence, I find a way to remember her. With my mother’s help, I mail cards to mark the passing of special occasions. Only the prettiest images will do: wide- eyed kittens tangled in balls of wool, their paws dipped in glitter or wicker baskets filled with pansies- her favourite flower. I hope she’ll smile as she slips the card from the envelope. Inside the card, is my scrawled script: Love, Annie.
I wonder. Does she see that I choose images for her? Can she hear the thump of a tiny heartbeat as it attaches in rhythm to her own? The cat on the card resembles her beloved feline. The pansies aren’t a random choice. Does she notice?
Everything done in tiny moments is to please her.
TBC
Fiction
~ Annie Speaks
I once read that the path to discovery is never a straight line. It’s a spiral and you keep circling back to find new truths. This is how I felt. The more I searched, the less I knew, yet, the more I understood.
~Annie
She was full of birdsong at sunrise
written notes, long conversation
a sin and a prayer
the scent of cut lemon and crushed rose
Seventies rock and shuffling blues
With a little bit of save the world
And I loved her for all that she thought she wasn’t
~cashmere and cotton
and the sky faded to dark
she leaned into the porch swing, lit a cigarette,
closed her eyes,
and whispered his name
She believed in more. More time to wonder, to imagine possibility in an ordinary moment. To believe in two strangers on a crowded street, the unfamiliar hand that reaches to hold a door, one certain glance.
Everything had changed yet she knew. His eyes looked like home.
The sourcebook for modern living
Author- Illustrator of children's books
“We may struggle, but we don’t quit”
The Casual Way to Discuss Movies
GETTING CREATIVE- this is my little creative corner in the world where I have my music, my stories sometimes combined with my music (read the story and you’ll find the song), poems (or really, really short stories as I like to call them 😉), audio stories and audio poems (for those of you who prefer to listen), my digital drawings and sometimes I even throw in some quotes or photos for inspiration 😊.
Sniffing out the best new music
islands and in between
Wear what you love, not what they say you should like.
Be Positive, Patient and Persistent...
Never get lost in the Sauce
Paradigm Shift, Mindfulness, and Personal Empowerment
Tales of humour, whimsy and courgettes
Reflections on Writing
whiny with a side of poet
Give me a sentence. I'll write you a story.
An archive for ... my stuff...
Conversations with the Heartmind
Simply a lifestyle blog! Come along with me...
The sourcebook for modern living
Author- Illustrator of children's books
“We may struggle, but we don’t quit”
The Casual Way to Discuss Movies
GETTING CREATIVE- this is my little creative corner in the world where I have my music, my stories sometimes combined with my music (read the story and you’ll find the song), poems (or really, really short stories as I like to call them 😉), audio stories and audio poems (for those of you who prefer to listen), my digital drawings and sometimes I even throw in some quotes or photos for inspiration 😊.
Sniffing out the best new music
islands and in between
Wear what you love, not what they say you should like.
Be Positive, Patient and Persistent...
Never get lost in the Sauce
Paradigm Shift, Mindfulness, and Personal Empowerment
Tales of humour, whimsy and courgettes
Reflections on Writing
whiny with a side of poet
Give me a sentence. I'll write you a story.
An archive for ... my stuff...
Conversations with the Heartmind
Simply a lifestyle blog! Come along with me...