The husband submerged his square, strong hands in the blue light of the cosmos. Stars winked like burnished silver lockers cavorting out of his reach. It was his fault that the days had drawn in and darkness reigned. Nowadays she stayed indoors wrapped in a cloak of memories. Only the cat occasionally courted her when he stirred his ginger limbs from the rag rug hearth where he lay curled. Her heart was a huge, cavernous building strewn with faded poppies. The war was over and emptiness remained. Deep in the woods the hatchet lay buried. Buzzards flew overhead chasing crows downwards. 'Honey,' he murmured, 'honey?' But his words were no longer drops of golden sweetness dredged from her pure teenage dreams but hollow with overuse. She hummed a tune from eons ago, 'little willie, willie won't come home.'
His square strong
hands had shod her in a shoddy way. The genie was out of the bottle and
there was no going back. She clicked her fingers for her first wish
longing to feel life's warmth infiltrate her days.
The copyright of this post belongs to Moira Cormack