A Small and Precious Gift

They told me not to go into that room
Back then
if the house was big enough
they would nail the door shut
rather than fix the floor

Took me a few hours to pry out enough nails

The door yielded to my persistence
Passing judgment on my effort
in a voice of rust twisting on steel

Sweltry and funky
A smell I’ve never held before or since
A palatable silence

The discomfort of the room
My intrusion, my invasion
Was less than welcome

I stood in the same silence my cousins had always fled
I refused to. . . what?

Beyond cracked windows
the sun fell through the horizon in crimson robes
Lightning flicked in distant thunderheads
and the wind pushed against the walls

I stood in a silence

my heart still wild after hours of dust

The house shifted as it cooled
Somewhere a door slammed shut or maybe open
and something skittered in the walls
A star crusted quarter moon
poured through the eastern window

Fearing the coming night, I stood. . .
And something I could almost name became a nimbus
Something I could almost touch brushed me soft as shadows
Something I could almost hear. . .

Her face
not lined as it was in life
Her hands
that bathed my head when i was struck with fever
Her voice. . . dear sweet God, her voice

“Why are you here little Bright Eyes?”
“oh. . .”
“You were never one to mince words
Out with it boy.”
“Are the Old Ways dead?
And I swear she almost laughed

“Bright Eyes, how can you ask such a thing?”
“I am not sure I can feel the Magic any longer.”
“Such as it has always been
Such as it always shall be.
You have grown strong and tall.
I remember the way you played with kittens,
You were always such a small and precious gift. . .”

She sighed then smiled light back into the world
“The blood in your veins is the Magic I have passed to you.
The tilt of the sky and the riverbeds of the wind,
even the fire that runs the conduits of your machines,
these and more have been given to you.”

I wept

“Dear one
the Past touches the Future in the place where you stand.
But the choice of looking-glass mesmers
or the journeys on the Pathways-Beyond-Number. . .
These choices are your legacy as well.”

“I love you.”
“I love you too little Bright Eyes.
I miss you so, but I have to get back to your Grandfather.”

And she was gone

Published by

Chyfrin the Celtic poet

Artist, Poet, Electrical/Biomedical Engineer, Actor, Playwright, Set construction, Educator, Lover of womankind and single malt scotch

4 thoughts on “A Small and Precious Gift”

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