The Mind

The red door is shut, the handle, polished steel. It begs to be opened.

I turn the handle to enter, brave. The room is cold. Two chairs stand in the middle of an Oriental rug. One is empty. A child, stares back. I have seen her face before. A forgotten photograph found inside a weathered cigar box.

A wild- eyed, willow wisp. Her moon- face stuns the dark. Emerald eyes glitter. A stubborn curl falls over one eye, as if to shield her from the world. Freckles dot the bridge of a tiny nose, claiming the familiar landscape of wide cheek bones.

My hand reaches forth.

It is as if she has waited an eternity to place her palm in mine. 

Photo by Suzy Hazelwood on Pexels.com

Draft Two

Excerpt From A Scene

Free Write

When you are weak, stand with me. I’ll lend you strength.

I’ll hand you a crumpled paper bag.

You’ll open it to find a scrap of heart, still beating.

I’ll reveal the scars that criss cross a back.

They will not diminish us.

I’ll offer you a photograph.

Allow the images to speak.

You’ll sense a glance, familiar. A posture, strong. A smile so endearing, your heart cracks. Turn the photo. A penciled notation is fashioned in perfect script. Evidence of loss and struggle amidst beauty.

I’ll reach for your hand.

You’ll reach back.

It’s impossible to separate our souls, our stories.

Our ancestors do not leave us, rather, they gather to bear witness, to stand alongside.

Photo by Lisa Fotios on Pexels.com

~Long ago I learned to make friends with silence.

Stone By Stone

Grey. I was grey. Grey as the stones washed upon the shore, heavy with the history of us. Little stones washed over my feet like scattered pieces of an unspoken truth. As the sea sang in a whispered hush, I flung one stone. Then another. Stone by stone I cast you off.

Except for one. A crooked heart. This one I shall place upon your grave.

~ Annie

My sister asked, “Do you remember that morning at the beach?”
 How could I  forget?
A memory of us. Two children lost in fantasy, tiny feet dancing as the ocean kissed the sand. Accidental twins, our small bodies snuggled in white hoodies.
“You took a stick and drew a huge circle,” she said,
I remember.
“I drew a circle to protect us.”
I see her step inside the circle. She is careful not to smudge the rounded edges.
The circle was our make shift island. A sanctuary, both too young to appreciate, paused moments are fleeting. We didn’t know of danger.
The universe knew. Two sprites and a majestic sea. Brave and shivering as the winds blew. A shipwrecked dinghy, marooned on the sand. Their stick, an oar.
It was as if our mere survival depended on circles.
Circles were everywhere throughout our world. We scampered through dense forests, our hard backs kissed by a honeyed sun. When night fell, two wolf pups mapped the stars and howled beneath a buttery moon.
We studied planets. Ever curious, our questions wheeled with ‘whys.’ Never sure, we chased certainty’s tail, passionate in our quest for truth.
We embraced circles. In the 70’s it was mandalas, knotted bandanas about our heads, and bracelets upon our wrists. We drove cars round blocks, cities, and countries, always to circle back home.
We are all circles.  The whorls on our fingertips, the irises of our eyes, our DNA cells, to the egg that gave us life.
 She asked, “Will life break us apart?”
“Never,” I said. ” If we drift apart, we’re returned by centrifugal force and universal law. Our fingers, forever tangled by an invisible thread that binds.”
She reaches for my hand.
Our circle is strong.

You ask, “Who am I?”

You are,

The pieces of every woman who came before your time

Scraps of chintz, lovingly stitched together

Calico cloth from an Auntie’s tattered dress

Pearl buttons cut from a Grandmother’s worn sweater

Poetic whispers in the night

A prayer to the stars

Oil and water

Loss and Love

These women formed you whole

 

How do you honour their brave?

By making yourself small?

By silencing your voice?

No, darling

 

Find yourself

Each scrap, soft as velvet

Each stitch, strong as rooted willow

Be an everlasting reminder of who you were, who you are, and who you will become

Beautiful, brave, kind

 

 

~Brave women, Ancestors

 

Currency

The value isn’t in the object. It is in the human story attached to it. The worn chair, the chipped saucer, a silver fork, her oil painting, a skeleton key, a one-eyed bear, a favourite find, a worn photograph. The memory is tactile, visual, and fraught with emotion.

Love. This is the currency to value.

love is the currency

~ Ikea.com

Tillago 20 piece flatware

 

 

All Knowing

It’s been awhile since I’ve sat down to “free” write much of anything worthy of eyes and time. So, here goes a draft of something that has little relation to anything, other than a fledgling writer’s recommitment to practice her craft~

Perched upon a twisted branch, nestled deep within the tree top’s canopy, a raven hid. Beneath its view, a woman lay sprawled upon the mossy floor. Tousled locks, the colour of spun gold, fanned over the green that bedded her body. She was covered in tapestry, its richness deeper and bluer than the ocean that smashed beneath the hillside cliffs at the forest’s edge.

It was the glint of diamond pinned at her neckline that caught the Raven’s eye.

A woman’s body, once an empty vessel, was filling. Was she drowning? One hand slid over her heart. The steady rhythm, a comfort. She stirred, grateful to be alive.

What all knowing presence had snuck beneath her skin? Its comforting warmth now surging through her veins; its wisdom trickling down in whispers, “seek and you shall  find.”

Full lips parted and she drank the words as quenching to her hollow as a downpour over parched earth. As a seed unfurls, she felt herself transforming back to life.

Once again, the voice spoke. This time the words were audible, “You are not alone.”

A flash of black broke through the verdant canopy. Eyes wide, she knew the answer to her question.

This ephiephemy hadn’t come about in easy fashion. Rather, it had been a journey of twists and turns, thorns and roses, darkness and light. Steeped in the brew were moments of glimmering truths.

Beauty is found within shambles. A gritty truth she understood. Glances back through time, a particular poem cut from a Daily, a chipped, floral tea cup, a photograph and an untold story. All small, cracked and torn moments forged to memory.

She stood, a forearm shielding her forehead and faced the dark fury. A lone voice commanded, “Be not afraid.”

She straightened. The others had circled, an army of silent souls. Sentries, they stood guard.  Step for step, they had matched her pace along this journey, only pausing when she had collapsed, to rest her cheek upon the carpeted forest floor.