Saturday, 2 August 2014
How far had he travelled?
The open umbrella stands in the far corner of his loft apartment, always unfurled to remind him.
Will he ever go back home? This intrigued others more than him. Stone liked to keep his own counsel and he knew the enigma drew the women to him. For this he often endured a slap in the face.
Will he ever go back home? Where is home anyway, the place where you can retreat to lick your wounds, where the kiss of betrayal can be washed away like silvered cobwebs from hornbeam trees.
Will he ever go back home? Stone turns the ring on his finger and opens up the secret compartment. The sand is still there, tiny grains of Palestine. A memory of a fishing village, now all but destroyed; thoughts of swimming in cool waters at the end of long hot days.
Will he ever go back home? The upheaval the letter brought all those years ago, the tang of lemonade on his tongue, memories, memories, further back, further back. The miles of running, of escaping, of fleeing with pockets full of coins, all of unknown denominations, the currency as foreign to him as the chorus of voices.
Will he ever go back home? Home now to Stone is like a baby hidden in a field, abandoned and unknown bringing freedom and respite. His red front door is like a gateway on fire: full of entrances and exits, excitement and disappointment linger there.
The copyright of this post belongs to Valerie Rule