The Nest
She built their nest of strands
pulled from her British past. The warm pine planks, the rocking chair the linen-shaded lamps, the shelves of books lining the walls and here and there a touch of Wedgwood blue to match her foreign eyes accustomed to a paler light, and so she sewed thick drapes and drew them tight to block the sun and keep her loved ones cool and safe in this harsh land, and thus they lived on Earl Grey tea and cakes and jam and cheddar cheese imported and the young ones grew up strangers and soon spread their wings and flew away and they were left, the two of them and now she’s dead and he sits silently and stares as all around the ties she tied come loose, unraveling the fraying nest. He doesn’t seem to care. Perhaps he never did.
April 2007 First published in Cyclamens and Swords, November 2008
|