At the end of the night everyone went home, and it was just me in the suddenly quiet house, in a puddle of warm yellow light over the the warm yellow table. A wave of fatigue washed over me as I blew out the candles and stacked up the box full of cups and the wine bottle and all the other bits and pieces on the challah tray so I'd only have to make one trip up the stairs on my cranky knee. As I reached for the candlesticks, I glanced up at the light and realized the air over the table was full of honey-scented smoke. It swirled with this delicate, perfect slowness, like the place in a dance where you stretch out each movement because the tension and motion are so beautiful it makes your chest hurt and it stretches and stretches and stretches... and then you finish the movement and flow into the next one and it all starts again. And I was just watching and breathing and it was so quiet.
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AuthorBitter Water
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License. Archives
June 2019
Categories© Francie Nevill and Every Sweet Thing, 2017.
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