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It’s August and the sky is white. It’s summer stealing hands grasp wide over the turning trees and I watch the branches sway up past my window. In my hand I hold a promise. It is a flower made of paper and folded to make petals and the stamen and the stalk. Another promise winds around to make a leaf and it is all white save the writing inside that the folds are hiding. This is paper engineering at its finest: it’s the careful art of manipulating something without strength and giving it, in the twist and fold, a more rigid structure. I roll the flower stem back and forth between my thumb and forefinger. What is this promise, I think. What is it but letters to make words to encourage the hope. But I know, of course, that this promise is nurtured by faith. I put it in my pocket.

I walk into the garden, strike a match against the air and light a cigarette. In bare feet I wonder across the grass. Foxes have been here and there’s a ball that must belong to the kids who I hear play next door. I stand with my toes touching the earthy flower beds that flank the grass and I reach to touch the plants that have grown fast in these last few days of rain. They are huge like Triffids. If I turn my head a little and squint at them I can make their shape into faces: smiling or with their mouths open to speak.

It wasn’t so long ago really that we sat out here, the hours gently rubbing against us as we read and laughed and ate and drank. Sometimes when I think of you I wonder if you will appear. If the doorbell will go or if you’ll stride into my office or I will pass you waiting for me somewhere along my walk home.

I kneel down and paw out a space in the earth. I take the promise from my pocket, on the petals I write that I love you and lay it like a seed in the dip. Patting the soil in around it I know that I cannot wait here to watch it grow: I must leave in order to return, to be patient as the folds open, let the words breathe and find their way carefully to the top. And I know too that my position will be measured only by how far I am from this point, from this promise and so from you.

In the hallway is my suitcase. My passport, a camera and a return ticket balanced on top. I am not leaving you; I just give you this space so you can come and find me.


Written by elikafm

August 30, 2010 at 12:26 pm

Posted in Uncategorized

One Response

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  1. […] This post was mentioned on Twitter by Elika and Robin Thomas, Robert Fitzmaurice. Robert Fitzmaurice said: Heart felt ritual RT @Elika: Waiting: http://ow.ly/2wQUt […]

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