This was a busy morning with ferrying the eldest to an interview and having a friend who is going to Mozambique with my husband for a farmer's market brunch (hurrah for Mr. Perry, "The Welsh Baker!") and then a suitcase-contents inspection. Now I must get back to the big reading project, but first I'll post the fifth of the Tinies.
NEW TO TINIES?
It will definitely make more sense to dive back to Tinies no. 1 and read forward... You may do that easily by scrolling down or clicking on the Tinies label below.,
MY OLD HOME
A memory of two sorts of flowers in a meadow and a hand are hardly enough for home. And yet that memory tethers me to something that is solid and real, a whole world of icebergs and mountains and seas that lie in the great troughs between the mountains.
And yet it is only a wisp.
Perhaps when I have been here as long as Old Martin, I will forget the two sorts of flowers and the grassy meadow and the hand curled around mine and think that there is nothing but this world.
Or perhaps I will find a door and fall headlong into my world. And perhaps it will be like the fairy stories Old Martin told when I was small, and only a week will have passed, and the one who held my hand will know my face and name, and I will become a little child again.
But perhaps all will change in an instant, and I will be bent and old, my hair a great cloud of staticky white, and no one will know me in that place. Then I will have nothing but grief to hold my hand.
Perhaps I will find a door and turn the knob, yet only lie beside the opening, looking through at a brighter world that I dare not enter.
4 July 2012