Things I remember

I remember the night. The air. It was as if a moonbeam had pierced and sunk into the pores of my skin, penetrating through flesh and deadening my senses. A faint shimmer of light glowing all around; blinding and white. And I recall trying to catch it with my bare hands. I recall it flitting through the cracks in my palm, and having to release it again, like a butterfly fleeting from my palm. I wonder where it flew to.

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Next, I remember my grandmother, as she lay on a dewy bed of roses and cotton. And I remember how her head rose, how her eyes met mine. I remember fissures in her palm, and how this light had begun to shine through them. The light caught at the window, caught in reflections in the mirror, its beautiful sparks sending fire at me. She was glowing, and the light filled the room, reached towards the door and kept darkness out forever. 

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At noon, I remember walking home, towards a path that sprawled out with weathered rocks and cobblestones before me. And I heard singing, which was strange because often during those busy days there was very little singing, and often the sounds of loud machinery kept most lilting sounds out. People would rather hurry to do immediate and important things rather than sit still and allow for the simple and unimportant to flower. So it was then, when I heard the song, that I decided to turn a different route and go along a path that had only ever taken me to lonely places. 

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I walked home, only realising towards the end of the road that I had already found what I was looking for. That love, and living, can be found only in those busy hours when a song is sung out quietly, reaching out to take you back to the place you started from.

Amanda