a bit of hair
If there was magic in those old scissors it was of a brutal and dark nature, for with a single snip (it seemed to me) she had become an entirely different person.
It was a momentary holding of my breath - a hope against hope, gazing at the wisps of auburn poking from under the prim and falling behind her ears and touching her neck. Maybe, yes maybe just - I mean, she could have, (always was the creative sort just look at these plants,) she might have wound her hair around a pencil or a paintbrush or - and just plonked a sun hat on over and -
"Are you alright?" She asks. "You look a little flustered."
Should have swallowed my tongue this morning.
"What? Oh, you know, busy day..."
"Fancy a cuppa then?" the smile lancing sideways.
"Oh yes, please."
And she stands there stooping over the plants, her little watering-can held in both hands and I see, quite clearly, the old people we are becoming. In the future, brittle boned and weathered we will be this as ever; her among the plants, watering and pruning and arranging, me with my little tin of cakes or biscuits and the smell of them fresh and newly baked. My hair will have flour in it adding to the gray. And hers?
There should be paint, and varnish, henna at the outside as the years demand - but suddenly I don't know that anymore, just, will she have hair then? Will it be a radical chic, femme baldness for the over sixties?
And the image of her in my mind, those melancholy eyes, the inclining confidence of a bare shoulder - it begins to crack and dry like a vintage photograph.
We have a passion for those after all, even now after our adolescent passions have cooled - our conversations rarely touching upon them - still... yes, even now, we keep them, some at least, those photographs snatched from when and wherever to be recreated by us and given newly imagined and shining life in a pantheon all our own.
Mavis Missing Link
we called her. That sensitive face, that firmly held newspaper or auction catalogue, those striking woven plaits, her hair. It was a combination so obvious and complete that we were frequently unable to speak about it. Mavis the revelator. Mavis - made us sisters.
Lisa Bowering:
we worshiped at the feet of that particularly sacred cow, our totem for school - and still a marker of some strange kind, even now.
She who launched a 100 bursts of imagination. The star of many of our games. The secret in our snide desk laughter. Giggling.
"Marie Antoinette?"
"Let them eat crisps!"
...................................
written for a character prompt and forgotten about - just found it in an old text file.
dunno, hope it's worth a read!.
(prim isn't a typo - god knows there were plenty of 'em!)
It was a momentary holding of my breath - a hope against hope, gazing at the wisps of auburn poking from under the prim and falling behind her ears and touching her neck. Maybe, yes maybe just - I mean, she could have, (always was the creative sort just look at these plants,) she might have wound her hair around a pencil or a paintbrush or - and just plonked a sun hat on over and -
"Are you alright?" She asks. "You look a little flustered."
Should have swallowed my tongue this morning.
"What? Oh, you know, busy day..."
"Fancy a cuppa then?" the smile lancing sideways.
"Oh yes, please."
And she stands there stooping over the plants, her little watering-can held in both hands and I see, quite clearly, the old people we are becoming. In the future, brittle boned and weathered we will be this as ever; her among the plants, watering and pruning and arranging, me with my little tin of cakes or biscuits and the smell of them fresh and newly baked. My hair will have flour in it adding to the gray. And hers?
There should be paint, and varnish, henna at the outside as the years demand - but suddenly I don't know that anymore, just, will she have hair then? Will it be a radical chic, femme baldness for the over sixties?
And the image of her in my mind, those melancholy eyes, the inclining confidence of a bare shoulder - it begins to crack and dry like a vintage photograph.
We have a passion for those after all, even now after our adolescent passions have cooled - our conversations rarely touching upon them - still... yes, even now, we keep them, some at least, those photographs snatched from when and wherever to be recreated by us and given newly imagined and shining life in a pantheon all our own.
Mavis Missing Link
we called her. That sensitive face, that firmly held newspaper or auction catalogue, those striking woven plaits, her hair. It was a combination so obvious and complete that we were frequently unable to speak about it. Mavis the revelator. Mavis - made us sisters.
Lisa Bowering:
we worshiped at the feet of that particularly sacred cow, our totem for school - and still a marker of some strange kind, even now.
She who launched a 100 bursts of imagination. The star of many of our games. The secret in our snide desk laughter. Giggling.
"Marie Antoinette?"
"Let them eat crisps!"
...................................
written for a character prompt and forgotten about - just found it in an old text file.
dunno, hope it's worth a read!.
(prim isn't a typo - god knows there were plenty of 'em!)