All posts tagged: family

such small mercies

  It’s five a.m., and the skies have opened up. Once again. The rain pounds and thunders on the rooftops, on the cars parked outside, on the road and pavements. If I didn’t know better, I’d say St. Peter had sent us a deluge of, well, pebbles and gravel. That’s how it sounds. But no. I stare out of the window, looking for the day that somehow isn’t yet breaking, though only last week it could already be seen blushing above the eastern horizon — and all I see is water. Water. Liquid, determined, insistent, persistent, coming out in sheets after sheets, solid-looking curtains of silvery metal rods that somehow disintegrate on first contact. Pooling a bit everywhere. Hurrying down the street. Over the pavements. And if it goes on like this, everything will be waterlogged. Everything. Including my life. Which, right now, seems to be just about nose-above-surface. And it’s only just August. Still only August. Silently, I drag a chair over, the best I can, nearer to the window. Still gazing out of …

autumn gold

the blessing of autumn after the torrid summer. the fresh drops of the still shy rain on the still bare skin. the scent of the earth, of the grass, of the streets after first rain. later, much later, almost an eternity gone by, or so it always seemed to the child, mom and dad and I shopping for Christmas presents, mom dragging me behind her in her hurried, fluttering step, dad purposefully lagging behind in his usual laid back, couldn’t care less way. suddenly, a wink of his blue eyes and a smile, and the little cone of hot newspaper would materialise in my hands. it’s all buried somewhere. not even the child has remained. only the chestnuts remain, but they no longer taste the same. they no longer smell of love, and of the smile of the simplest things.     12 October 2013   © Nina Light CC-BY-NC-ND      

the magpies

  I know that when I was born the gods that purvey for such things had run out of all sorts and manners of clay, and so they had no choice but to shape me out of a magpie. At least that is what Auntie used to tell me – that, and that I had somehow turned out just like Nan. – Why, was Nana made of magpie too? – She too was fashioned out of a magpie, girl… Why, she is the original magpie! Next to her, all other magpies are but pale and hopeless reflections. – Even me? – Even you, girl. You’ve got a lot of bread to go through before you can fill her shoes, that’s for sure, but you’re sure giving it one hell of a good try! You show real promise. Like Nan, like child. Magpies, one and the other. – And you, Tattie, weren’t you made of magpie too? – Me, I’m the palest of them all. My magpie hasn’t got the time, and she’s seen so much …