Pretending to linger I make a show of standing on the threshold one shoulder inside this room we’ve filled with moments, cheeks smooshed against windows limbs spilling, grasping from cupboards unclosed and floorboards lifting loose to show the bodies no longer hidden, buried beneath.
Time tests all things, makes steady work of wearing out these old duds, till they fall off and run like sand along the length of your hourglass, or come back into fashion, following along worn grooves and ever turning cycles deepening down each mark.
They were all odd dancers. Up on their toes, jittering ballerinas, twisting in an old wind. Shifts turned to ragged sails from long wrecked ships still trying to take their home. Spent nights wrapping their bone fingers tight into abandoned symbols. Gathered at last on the hearth, faces pressed against soot and ash, begging for the strings not to pull them up again. Up onto their toes to dance like strange, dying flames, guttering the last of their wicks.
This was the house with the old kettle squatting short and fat on the rayburn, a singing throat gurgling to be lifted with care from the hot plate. Oil fire constant within arm’s reach. Shall we have another cup of tea?