The Letter Box

The Letter Box - Image courtesy of Bridal Musings

It is our secret hiding place, where we leave things and stuff for each other.

At first we looked for a hollow in a tree, but most were already in use, crammed with other peoples’ secrets.

So we decided to exchange our secrets in plain sight, in a letter box. 

Mostly we leave letters for each other, sometimes written in code or using symbols, just to build an air of mystery for prying eyes, but usually stating nothing more than our love for each other.

When we are unable to write, we leave snippets of conversations. Words mingled with lilting voices and whispers.

Occasionally we leave songs, or poetry, or an oft repeated refrain, or other plays of words and music and melodies.

Sometimes we leave each other our thoughts, and that is how we find we can read each others’ minds. 

Sometimes he leaves me a rose, and I am enveloped in its fragrance all day. 

I leave him a feather and his imagination takes flight. 

That’s how it works each time. 

One from him, one from me.

Once he left me a life, and I used it to cheat Death. 

I have yet to figure out what to give him in turn.

The Seeing Eyes

The Seeing Eye

The eyes, they glow in the dark.

They watch, even if only in turns.

One keeps an eye (pun unintended) on your past to prevent it from slowing you down.

Another keeps watch on your future, ensuring it remains unknown and unpredictable enough to make life and its living interesting for you. 

(No one watches your present, that responsibility is solely yours.)

The third monitors your friends, and the fourth, your enemies. Too many of one and too few of the other throws life out of balance.

The fifth eye keeps track of your luck, making sure you have enough when you need it the most, and others get their fare share too. 

The sixth eye watches behind a closed lid. Every move, every breath, every thought and every hope, every heartbreak, every moment crushed under the weight of despair, every laughter that filled you with an indescribable lightness of being, the sixth eye records and remembers. 

It flicks open only at the fag end to help you remember an entire lifetime in a matter of moments. One last time, a final memory, before your past and future, your friends and enemies, your good luck and bad, all cease to exist.

When Dragons Forget They Can Fly

When Dragons Forget They Can Fly

We asked the dragon what she was doing behind the fence.

She was waiting, she said. Waiting to be transported to her next destination.

Couldn’t she simply fly, we asked.

No, she didn’t think so. Well, she hadn’t flown in a very long time, so she couldn’t quite remember how to go about it anymore, she said.

No one can forget how to fly, we insisted. Just as people didn’t forget to walk or swim or ride a bike, even if they hadn’t done it for decades.

That’s not how it goes with flying, the dragon reasoned. 

We couldn’t argue for none of us had ever flown before nor did we know anyone who could fly. (Except the birds, but they have long stopped sharing their secrets with humans, so there was no way we could verify the dragon’s claims.) 

We urged the dragon to try and fly.

Nah, she dismissed. It probably involved too much effort, so she couldn’t bothered to try, she said, and anyway she was scheduled to be transported to her next destination, the events crew should be here anytime now.

She said they’d dismantle her into small blocks, box them up, and piece her together again when they’d arrive at the next destination.

Didn’t it hurt, we wondered. 

It does, she admitted, but at least this way she knew she’d soon be whole and in one piece again. As long as she avoided the hazards of flying.

In Search of Winter

Image courtesy of Erik Johansson

When summer overstayed his welcome and winter showed no sign of making an appearance (and oh! autumn had all but disappeared from the face of this part of the earth), the locals blamed it on global warming and other newfangled terms that the Old Folk insisted were never in existence in the good old days.

Granny was one of the Old Folk and although I don’t believe everything they say, I do believe everything she says. So when she said yes, climate and weather were rarely capricious back in those times, I believed her. And when she also said that we could still use some age-old wisdom to tame the elements to do our bidding, if only temporarily, I believed that too. 

She sent me back in time to search for the good winters. I was to look for the good old days and nights cloaked in thick blankets of snow, cut them from the fabric of time, and weave them into the realm of the present day. A swift snip here, a neat nick there, then stitch together the snippets of time to form a patchwork of cold, wintry days. 

I must have done a good job for Granny was pleased when I came back home, winter at my heels. Winter, when she came, was like a dream come true. The nip in the air cleared our heads and invigorated our souls. Under the heavy cover of snow, the world was once again pristine and new, as if gifted with a new beginning.

But that was back then. It’s been twelve years now and not much has changed. The snow refuses to melt and the sun only emits a flimsy, ghostly glow. Spring is a forgotten antiquity. As is autumn. The locals yearn for the warmth of sunshine but no one quite remembers what summer used to be like.

Granny says she can send me back in time to return the winters and look for good summers. But I resist. I will have to let winter linger a wee bit longer. For I can’t quite remember where in time each of the snowy patches ought to be sent back to.