between
the worlds
Just
before her mother would call for supper, just when all the other kids went
in. Dusk. This time and this space in time are at the
border. Now she thinks, “Come to my
parcel, my patch, my cottage.” This time between the worlds, the place where
women like me used to flourish was a half lit world. Time when sentiment broke
free from the rush of hours. Later she learned
it was the time when queers could live, when owls hunt, when gods walk on the
streets. Full of possibilities but never
certainties. A busy intersection among
the strings of realities. While the
world is spinning, the spinning goddesses are weaving fates. That’s why it feels at times that you want to
slow things down. There are exercises to
do this. There’s focus and the now of it.
You can stop, have a smoke.
Consider a life review. Barry
started reviewing his year, than his half year.
The last she heard from him, he said he was considering a three month
review. Memories hold sweetness and the
now has to compete for Mrs. Scattergood’s attention otherwise she’ll never make
it home. She wasn’t far from home but
probably a tad or two further away from peace and the emotional comfort that
comes from pleasant distractions.
‘Some say that there’s a crack between the
worlds at dawn and dusk. She could feel
that in her bones. The daily dawn to dusk shift seems like nothing compared to
this seasonal door. It’s a ripe time for
changes, even old laments can come wailing through. Baubo remembered the words of a poem Mrs.
Scattergood wrote when she was younger: “...and the time is ripe for running to
the moon.”?’
from
riding the waves by freda karpf, find in on Kindle
