By Sarah O’Brien

The road ahead looks perilous. Its steep descents and winding streets loom in the near distance. A fear of what I can not know lays upon me like a thick layer of moor-side fog and I sit there, warmed only by the embraces of my thoughts. Cannots, whys and maybes swell from my chest and I’m fighting to quell it’s striking, ringing, choking grasp on my senses.

It’s quiet now and all is well for the moment. Tired eyes scrunch up, shading from the gaze of the sun and breakfast comes. The pitter-patter and creaks up the stairs hold me, guessing which as every step leads me, lost in my thoughts and memories. Early September mornings bring with them the smell of dawn and dew on the grass. Hoover sounds ring in my ears and yet they sleep contented.

Clock faces were made to teach the importance of time, but whose time I wondered. Instead four hands taught me the importance of patience and the precision of love. “I hate, I can’t and I won’t”, were met with the gentle roughness of your hands, holding mine, teaching me.

Vignettes of a time long gone remind me now that I can and I will be okay. The scary rush of mechanical voices, the babbling of the congeries daunt me still and I sit here and write.


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