I though I'd make Fridays a great day to share work. Yours and Mine.
The Dog
She
walks out on the veranda—her hands wrapped around a steaming cup of tea. The
air is fresh with the early morning, the sun just rising, the clouds starting
to blush with warmth.
Still wrapped in her grotty dressing gown,
she steps of the veranda, out into the sunlight, the day is going to be crisp,
seasonal winter approaches, in contrast to the winter of the last few days. Her first emergence from the house.
The light breeze moves her lank hair,
laying listless upon her shoulders. She breaths in the fresh air, and her
thoughts move to a steamy hot shower, she knows today, will see her break free from
despair.
She understands not—why or how these days creep upon her, where she skulks to the lounge, and hibernates under a blanket, her delusional place of security, and protection— a place to keep the noisy world at bay.
 |
| Autumn Leaves |
In the garden the weeds have taken over. In
the last few months, the incessant rain has nourished the dandelions, their
welcoming yellow hues, fuelled to fluffy, downy heads, spreading seeds, and
multiplying, doing their job— a far cry from her moping thoughts of hopelessness.
She’s not been doing much at all, nothing
worthwhile, or more importantly, nothing she feels, which makes, herself
worthwhile. She should have been writing, she thinks, even if it’s only in her
diary, kickstarting her momentum, a stick, big enough to beat back the black
dog.
She looks back at the wonderful life she’s
had, and still has—family, friends, work, and carefree fun. She wonders again
how the doldrums get hold of her. You lose someone she thinks, that’s how it
starts, and then another, and another. Until she feels they’re leaving her on
purpose, making it their mission—ridiculous thoughts indeed.
She sits on the garden wall, her cup is no
longer steaming, long gone cold, she puts it down on the brickwork, and in
doing so brushes the weeds aside. She looks carefully at the small white bumps
in the soil, bending for a closer look, she sees they’re the smallest heads of mushrooms,
pushing their way up from the damp steamy earth, emerging as new, ready to open
as the day warms.
The perennial struggle of nature makes her smile,
and she knows, today will be the day, to move back, to a state of emerging
abundance.
Hi karen, that is beautiful and i can relate totally. Regards sharon
ReplyDeleteHi Sharon,
DeleteIt worked. So if you wish to share other stories on Fridays, you just cut it from your word document, and then paste it into the comments.
ANZAC Day 2020
ReplyDeleteBy Sharon Elliott
A neighbour walked toward Greta with his candle as she stood at the end of her driveway, “I saw you standing here, may I join you, Greta?”
“Good morning Mike. Yes, please do.”
He bent to place his candle next to hers with its flame reaching to the sky.
They were silent as they stood 1.5 metres apart, watched the sun rise over the ocean into the expanse of cloudless blue. The streetlights blinked off at the exact time a local amateur played The Last Post on his bugle, making the sound more potent in its imperfection as they stood remembering.
In the stillness, following the sombre event, she heard the echoes of the waves, beckoning her to come down the hill to play in its shallows.
"Thank you, Mike, have a good day.”
"You too, Greta."
The ocean spoke louder, reaching Geta's soul.
“Come," the waves whispered to her.
She succumbed and drove her trusty old Ford to the beach.
Protecting her pale complexion she placed a floppy straw hat on her head, tightening the string, against the mounting breeze and placed a pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses over her soulful brown eyes.
“All set,” she muttered as she kicked off her thongs and strode with purpose towards the water. The bitumen contrasted with the soft sand and were a clash of feelings upon the soles of her feet, as the sea reached out to greet her.
A wave washed around her feet, and she gritted her teeth acclimatising to the cold on warm skin. The ocean was refreshing and the sensations of wet sand and salt water, heightened her senses. As the calming water and sand healed and cleansed, she gazed out to sea thinking of all those lives lost on the beach at Gallipoli and elsewhere.
She whispered, “thank you.”