Clean slate

She sat by the doorstep, having just finished plaiting her long hair, gazing at the little rivulets that caressed her feet, as they skid past merrily, eager to commune with their older, more stream-lined siblings. But, really only looking resolutely at the tiny vestige blocking a certain turnpike of her memory. It had lost most of its sheen, and now floated about in its grey cell, prison cell, like an old showpiece that had seen more chipper, flapper days. She reached out for the intruder with feigned frustration, and maybe a tinge of a grin. She should have known it was a conduit.

But, she did. And now, she felt herself getting sucked into a vortex of emotional paraphernalia. Faces, houses, laughter, dancing, love, lust, yearning, learning… they whirled about all around her. With every swirl, they seemed to get brighter, juddering off layers of ancient dust, in the manner of a retriever vigorously shaking the water off his mane. Each of them threw little, hand-crafted arrows at the tender tendons that held her resolve firmly in place, even as it stewed patiently, waiting for its steel jacket.

Going back to where she started- square one- wasn’t an option. Her passion fruit tree needed her, as did her herb garden and her precious Muddy, who she’d found in dire waters, as a pup. And, then, there were all those journals, each of which eagerly suckled at the bosom of her soul, nourished by a diet of Indigo ink and the reds, greens, blues and greys of her existence. She could not, would not desert them.

So, she put her feet down firmly and walked through the centrifuging curtains, bruising her nose just a little as she stepped out.

She chuckled silently. Tickled a little by the rivulets that had stopped to watch her and were now nudging the tips of her toes, but for most part, pleased as punch at the thriving health of her resolve. This was her home now and she wouldn’t leave it. Not for years. And when she did depart, she wouldn’t trace her steps back to where she came from.

But, now, all she wanted to do was be in constant awe of the mountains that were her neighbours and whisper stray anecdotes from her life to them, as they pretended to sleep. And, hope they wouldn’t judge her the next morning. To ripen the fruit of her beautiful tree with her personal fertiliser of maternal passion. To ensure precious Muddy didn’t go to pieces in the mixed acids of abandonment. To milk her soul dry and splash the magical discharge across her journals. So that one day, some day, she would be able to sit in solitude in a quiet verandah, somewhere obscure, and understand it better. Understand it in a way she never had when it still clung to her, aided by the adhesive of youth.