By Sarah O’Brien

The road ahead looks perilous. It’s 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. Cannot, why’s and maybe’s 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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