Dark Spaces
It called to him from the dark spaces. The small crack. The door standing ajar. lulling him. His every fibre craved the realise. The door seemed to waver in an unseen breeze, stretching further open. His need was hunger.
The old wooden wardrobe stood there laughing and teasing him. The nineteen fifties Deco screamed out at him, it wasn't trendy it was trashy, cheap deceptive, just like the fifties in fact. He tried at smile at the though, it became more of a grimace. The irritation mounted. As did his desire. It was warm in here, the window lay open, yet there was no air. None for him anyway. Shifting in his chair it groaned under his weight, screaming out to anyone who could hear, ' he's going to do it. He will. He cant hold out much longer.'
The air suddenly rushes in, he breathing comes in harrowing hitches. With an effort it begins to slow. It's hard but he can do it. His mouth is dry. Every taste bud is howling and shrieking. She didn't know or she wouldn't do this to him. Would she? Movements in the kitchen and the sound of pots and water sloshing distracted him. Closing his eyes he tries to call a childhood memory. Any would do, just an escape. None were willing. He was here alone. Well not completely alone, It was here too, calling to him from the dark spaces.
He can hear her talking to him now. His responses are non-committal. The sweat beads on his brow. It trickles down his back leaving trails of discomfort tattooed against his shirt. A time would come, he would be free of this, of it all. The door moves again, the hinges creak, screaming out a protest. What is moving the door? It's not him, it can't be that his need is so strong. Again he notes the lack of breeze. The movements in the kitchen slow. Plates are being placed out, the smell of a dinner is mouthwatering, isn't it?
She enters the room, her smile is that of someone oblivious. She has no idea. That's not her fault. Causally she closes the cabinet door in passing, it wobbles in frustration. The game is over. The dark space has gone.
For the moment any way.
The edges are blurred from this angle, nothing seems to fit just the same as it did before.
Change came and you left, now like a fading memory of what your face could have been, becoming more elusive as the days roll away from me.
I am left not alone, but without you.
My grief an ache, ridding me of all emotions tearing at the periphery of normalcy.
I live each day thinking of what you could have been. A mass of tangled images, the first time I could have held you, the touch of your tiny hands, in their first desperate clutch to find me.
It will pass they say.
You will learn to live with this move on, but I will never move on, the thought of you imprinted firmly into the smallest places.
A fantasy of you waiting in the recesses to be recalled. Deep wells of escapism to delve into, but I eventually have to come up for air, and you are still not here, you never came. I try comfort my self with any fickle belief system, but comfort is absent.
Instead I surround my self with my children healthy and loved, and wish that you were among us. But your tiny hand will never find mine.
For Emilia
 Her tiny feet balance nimbly on the out stretched branch. The night air tussles her long dark curls, revealing glittering wings, poking through her sheer pink dress. She is what you and I would call a garden fairy. Her song is like the rustling of autumn leaves below your feet, and her job is to call in the seasons. Tonight Autumn must come, to face the burnt orange and ocher sky scape..
She slips into the small hollow of a tree stump. The garden is silenced around her. Not an owl hoots, nor a mouse nibbles at his tiny crumbs. With out stirring a blade of grass she appears again, her dress is now a dazzling bronze and gold, her hair the colour of waxen straw. In her hand is The Autumn Wand, it shines and lights up the undergrowth leaving a wisp of fairy light in its wake. She flutters from plant to shrub whispering songs of sleep and hibernation to each in their turn. Then flies high into the cool night sky, below her the old oak tree sways, as its leaves turn from a rich green to crisp auburn then flutter to the garden below. Her final spell is cast as the dawn light trickles across the horizon, lighting up the old oak in hues of autumnal fire.
Now she stretches and yawns, her tiny feet are tired and heavy, as they pat upon the crisp fallen leaves. She enters her home in the weathered tree stump and slumbers as we dress for our day ahead, her job has ended as our is just beginning. So sleep well tonight my sweet Emilia for as you sleep and grow, in the garden below our fairy will be dancing and singing in the magical moon light.