Under The Archways

When I remember my childhood it's with all five senses. Smells, sights, sounds, touch and feelings. Maybe that's not strictly true, but that's how I interpret the senses. Of the sixth sense I cannot speak, its too nebulous even now, long after those days. People speak of their past with exaggeration, one-way or the other. Either it was of deadly poverty or it was "the good old days. Neither is true, there is no black nor white, only shades of grey and these varied according to who is reminiscing about those times. That's why I'm so wary of writing about it, various authors, usually female, have made a small fortune over the years writing about slum-dwellings and the people who triumphed over their backgrounds. I dislike such stories, only reading a handful to gauge the truth of different locations.

this is all a bit scarey, it's ages since I wrote anything. This is a bit of a reminisence of hristmas as a child.

She stirs and moans in her dream-tossed sleep, the tears long-dried on her swollen eyes. I lie beside her afraid to move, her arm lies heavy on my breast. How can I wake her to her world of pain, expose her heart to the storms of grief that wrack her body and soul, night by night?

She arrives early as usual. The choice of seating leaves a lot to be desired, but she sits one row back at the end of the line of plastic chairs.

I have to admit that I didn’t see the Inspiration Point topic until today.

I sat outside in my garden last night. The day had been hot. The evening air was cooling and I didn’t have to look at the mess that’s my yard.