Gilded by a Thousand Sorrows
She follows me, with the flutter of a duster, around the house. A bony question mark, hips grinding
like a worn out piston working fur-lined slippers against the old oak boards. Lungs working in out, in
out, chuff-chuff, chuff-chuff whisper, forgive me.
She sits by the window, facing the garden. Starlings squabble on the lawn, a dove watches
from the crumbling stone wall. How far can she see? Her bony hand, mottled and twisted points to
the window. There is something. Or someone. But her hand drops to her lap, her jaw twitches as
teeth grind against teeth. A solitary tear traces down her cheek, a sliver of spittle leaks from her
lips. The dove lifts off but her milky eyes are on the glass, grimed with rain stains and palm prints.
And so our days pass, like trains running on parallel lines. Junctions force connection and
after years of estrangement we hover over words, resist the ache of touch. But then, on Saturdays,
I wash her long, silver hair, greasy and frizzed. I pick the earthenware jug she used for me, its
cracked glaze a conduit for our chips and scars. Each tip of the jug encourages fingertips to smooth
and knead. And when she is at last turbaned and warming by the fire, our guards slump a little and
we revisit our unforgotten ghosts, calling them in one by one. By the time day is dying we have
gilded the past with our own deception. Glossed it over with something we can live with. Leagues
of misunderstandings once forged into distance and hate – no, not hate – let’s call this sorrow,
unlove – fly like a humming murmuration.
And as I brush her hair, slow strokes, scalp to tips, psht-psht, psht-psht I whisper, forgive
me.
Jane has been writing for what feels like forever. She blogs and writes stories about belonging, longing and relationships. jane-lomas.com