Up the staircase we go, a father and his shadow, the profile of future generations silhoueted on the wall. We are together in our own safe time continuum, I his joy, he my safety net. Untouchable.
We walk in the woods hand in hand under a pewter sky, warm mittened, haloed by clouds of breath, grey air and giggles filling the gaps. Leaves lie heeped and heavy under foot, too damp for crisp-kicking. I collect one of each colour and take them home. A fist of leaves.
The collage of dried leaves remains on the wall, the echo of a poetic heart, autumn years now unfettered by earthly tethers. Our family tree with its broken arm.
The family gather around the kitchen table and say their fare-thee-well.
“Slangevar.” A glass lifted to the heavens.
I walk up the staircase. Me and my shadow. I hold out my hand for the angel and shiver.
“Fare thee well?.”
Beneath me, the family seesaws in a lullaby of grief and memories. A ship in safe harbour, nursing her wounds. A ghost of its former self, love still billows the sails, ready to steer a new course.
No comments:
Post a Comment