It begins with golden curls, golden tresses. The obsession with all things golden hued starts with hair. Wild curly locks, impossibly tiny ringlets, never combed, for all the world like sheep’s wool. But the colour….oh, the colour!! Henry remembered his mother’s hair, all saffron and shine, easy to spot when he was lost as a boy. Look around, there she was, a golden beacon shining just for him.
He fingered the ridged lipstick in his pocket, his last gift to her, one she’d scolded him for buying, yet flushed with joy upon opening. Never worn, always insisting it was too bold for everyday; she’d save it for the Opera.
One day, she’d say, one day we’ll go. Yessir, all dolled up, girl needs a gold lipstick filled with red to splash on.
Gold Bold Gold Cold Hold Mould Meld Mold Told Rolled Fold. Folded.
Folded in on herself a year ago and he’d had to go. Time to move on, couldn’t stay where they’d laughed and supped, eking out a living. He moved around all the time, doing odd jobs, looking for a place to settle, a warm hearth, a safe drawer in which to store his golden memory, safely tucked in its yellow velvet pouch.
The copyright of this post belongs to Lynn McCarty Hillston