Tinies no. 5

BY AUGUST LIGHT
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.

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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