Siege of the Spring
Old and crippled she stands by the shore.
Closer and closer she draws.
It was but to be expected, a noble lady of her age, that one day her days would be over.
And no more memories would be made.
Regardless of tide or time she takes thought to tend to the timeless travels that once took place...
In this place...where she now stands;
But at home.
For, although she has lost someone, something, so dear, as she stands by the shore she does not shed a single tear.
The tide is out.
She rests beside the breakwater, waiting for her youth to be restored.
But her purpose is no more.
For her captain did not return from the Siege of the Spring.
Although tranquility has been restored for most, dormant memories can still sting.
Reaching through the electric jungle, I take my daughter's hand.
Her eyes acknowledge my presence; she smiles.
Fighting the exhaustion, she mutters:
"Tell me the names of all the colours..."
"My darling, how could I possibly? For there are so many."
"Are there more than the number of birthdays I've had?"
"Much more than eight, Maya, much more than eight."
"But, mother, 'how' many exactly?"
"So many, Maya, too many for you worry about"
"What makes you think I am worried?"
"Because you ask with such urgency–"
My mind ticks back to the day the news came, when I asked with such an urgency, the answers to questions I never thought I'd ask: how long does she have to–
"Do they all have names?"
"I'm not sure..."
"Where do their names come from?"
"I'm not sure..."
" 'I' think they are named after angels, once their time on earth has finished."
"I think you're probably right, I'll do my best for you, my love. Close your eyes, sleep tight."
She closes her eyes as I tell her tales of colours dancing on the walls of sun-lit streets; she is content.
I am content.
Suddenly it is morning.
All I see is colour; a shade so specific that it must be new.
I then recall our chat from the night before.
This shade is 'Maya Blue'.
...and so we named all the colours of the world...until you became one.
Cottage at the Top of the Hill
Night needn't worry her, as she stands at the top of the hill.
Dawn brings suspense; makes us question what the day will bring...but she already knows.
Lights on distant buildings peak through the delicate mist, acting like the eyes of foxes in the trees.
Perhaps they are...she would know.
She elegantly welcomes each day as a new opporunity to grow, observe and serve.
What keeps her warm during winter...nothing but the complex blanket of green that protects her, hugs her.
She does not retreat.
She is someone's retreat. A haven.
For she is the cottage at the top of the hill.