between the worlds

 

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