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A dark November evening in the house of my grandmother sharp skeletons of trees scraped and creaked, scratching window panes. Folded within her old shawl, I sat by the range, turf glowing red behind the black—toothed grimace of the grate. Around me, they murmured, weaving the endless web of scuffles, scandals, schedules of funerals, of news from those in Australia and America and the lives of locals, of old friends and enemies, centuries of our blood mingled, mixed in this rough, rocky soil. I nestled further into my nook sombre orphan pressed my cheek to her chest until all I heard was the steady, sturdy thump of her heart, the ebb and flow of ceaseless tide, an echo crashing through cliff caves.
August 17, 2024 at 6:39 PM