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The awakening

02/02/2016

He awoke to the brush of her fingers across his brow.

“Come.”

Peering blearily at the bedside clock. “Come? Where? Now? Do you know what time it is?”

“Yes. Now. It is always now. Come and see.”

She pads silently from the room. He drags aside the sheet and follows.

Outside the sun’s first rays kiss the treetops. She is standing at the garden’s centre, arms akimbo.

“See. Hear. Smell.”

For an instant there is something. He does see. He thinks he sees. Something.

A magpie warbles, the breeze whispers and she is dancing in a swirl of tiny blue … petals? Butterflies?

“How can you …? Why …?”

“Hush. There is no why. Because … everything.”

______________________________________

Thanks to jenimcmillan and Rumi.

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From → short fiction

12 Comments
  1. Wonderous! I am still in shock at being compared to Rumi… yikes!

    Like

  2. For Fox Sake permalink

    Hmm, just the other day I was drawn to the tiny blue petals of
    cornflowers.

    Like

    • Did you ever read (or watch) Philip K. Dick’s A Scanner Darkly?

      Like

      • For Fox Sake permalink

        Nope. Why?

        Like

        • Long story. But a good one. Check it out. The movie is well worth a look too, if you don’t mind rotoscope.

          Or you can just click on the link I provided to the Wikipedia entry and read the synopsis if you’re too lazy.

          Like

        • For Fox Sake permalink

          Oi! Just because I have different tastes in what is ‘worth a look’, doesn’t
          make me lazy.

          Like

        • Not so sure about that. People who get their art via criticism, synopses and Readers Digest Condensed Books have different tastes because they are lazy. Or maybe ADHD.

          Like

        • For Fox Sake permalink

          You’re just a snob!

          Like

        • Nah. If I was a snob I’d be pretending my superior artistic discernment was just a matter of taste or opinion. To be a proper snob you’ve got to fake humility. Unconvincingly.

          Like

  3. WHEN I LOSE YOU

    When I lose you
    will you remember the leaves
    of my brown name?

    Not like an oak, which clings
    snow after snow

    but like the poplar
    spilling her yellow dress
    to the insistent fingertips of fall.

    The mother of grief
    is a kind forgetting

    and I tell you now
    that I will forget everything
    I will forget even you, beloved.

    Remembering light
    like a leaf stilled in limestone

    who would have thought
    we could weigh so little?

    Pamela Spiro Wagner 11/8/2010

    Like

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