The visits never lasted long; a few days at most. She’d sweep back into town with a flurry of excitement and kaleidoscope colours.
“Look! I found it at a market in India!”
Ivory elephants, carved whistles, turquoise beads pressed into my hands. Ready to stand beside the box of discoloured letters I still keep beneath my bed. Her black inked spider scrawl saturated the pages in brighter hues than her voice ever managed to.
The visits never lasted long; a few days at most. Sometimes I wished to be caught up in her hurricane of silks and bangles. Sped away to countries where my tongue twisted and grasped for syllables to names I could not repeat. I sometimes wished that her world was my world and the paint strokes on both canvases were the same.
This was what I sometimes wished for, but always I wished for her to stay a little while longer and see what may have been more mundane, but what was most certainly mine.