Drabbles

After months of wobbling and fiddling and nudging, the little white nugget finally falls out.

Slipping it in a bright yellow envelope, a little girl places it under her pillow for the tooth fairy.

It’s dark when little eyes open and a little hand feels under the pillow.

“Mummy my tooth is still here!”

“She’s just late,” says mummy, “Back to bed.” Scooping up her little girl, Mummy puts her back to bed and slips a yellow envelope under her pillow.

A short time later, Mummy hears a cry of delight.

“You were right, the tooth fairy was just late!”

After the fire of the day gutters in the eastern pit, and a midnight blue shadow leaks across the sky like ink soaking into paper, one light shines on despite the dimming embers.

The first light of night flickers like a candle in the remaining cold cobalt sky. A beacon of hope that the fire of day will reignite, that business will start again tomorrow.

But now, heralding the night, it listens to the lonely, connecting them by the twinkle of a wish.

And so, I look up to the lone star that looks down on you wherever you are.

Together we sailed into the sunset. Just the two of us, together at last.

After years of searching to find each other, and then the drama of getting together, we finally sailed off in a ship all ours, which you powered and I navigated.

After years at sea, a wild and unexpected storm hit, and we were forced toward land again. Our little ship, our world, ran aground and was invaded by other people.

For now, we must deal with the real world again. But maybe one day we’ll go sailing again, together again, just the two of us, forever.

Phylis Erfil likes to prune her bushes frequently.

Every Wednesday, just as the sun rises, she ties the thick, lilac ribbons of her straw, sunhat into a big bow under her chin. She pulls on her worn, smelly leather gloves and scoops up her shiny, secateurs. Striding out of the French doors she moves up and down her flower beds, like a spider spinning a web, watering and weeding and waiting and waiting.

Waiting to catch the flying gossip.

A door slams. Keys jangle. The web vibrates and the spider moves in.    

“Good Morning Mrs Wray. How are you today?”

Watching a man older than herself, she wonders how she could mean anything to him who has already known so much life.

They may have shared a few moments, but those moments are drops when compared to the ocean of life he’s shared with so many others not her.

How can she be more than a passing thought, a gentle breeze; nice but leaving no mark. He’ll forget her as soon as the weather changes.

But she’ll fall; a tear into the ocean of his life.

He could catch her.

But more likely he’ll wipe her away without a thought.

One day she’s here. Two days and more. She has her first feed. Her first sleep.

Feed two. Sleep two.

First Babygro. First bad night crying five times.

Babygro two. Bad night two crying ten times.

Her first tooth. Her first solid food.

Tooth two. Food two.

First roll. First crawl. First step.

Roll two. Crawl two. Step two.

First pair of shoes. First run. First fall.

Fall two. Run two, straight to you, in two new shoes.   

First cake. Cake two with candles two, she blew.

She was one. Now two.

Only one. But soon to be two, too.

From the cradle to the pushchair my boy has studied the world with his blue eyes. Clear as a summer sky and deep as the seven oceans.

Considering everything before him, his mind is constantly whirling with activity. Notes are taken and filed away for later review. New connections are made, every day, highlighted and stored away. 

After considering all the possible variables of the world before him, his lips stretch thin and split to reveal new adult teeth, slightly too large for his mouth. Despite everything he has seen, his smile is not flashy or cynical, but thoughtfully happy.

The day after victory, after success, like walking home on the best night out. Adrenaline still courses through your veins, the cheers still echo in your ears, the friends you made still haunt your wandering steps.

Yesterday, you had purpose, aim, direction, now you have none. You wonder alone and undone.

You walk down hill, no longer looking at the view you climbed so high to see. Concentrating on the everyday steps right in front of you, you slow to a downward plod.

But despite the boredom and ordinariness, you keep plodding, because eventually you know you’ll start a new ascent.

As the hum of cellos tuning, vibrates through the wooden floor, I clench my toes in shoes that are not my shoes.

But when I relax, they are mine.

Oboes respond to the cellos’ tune as I clench my fists.  My fingers brush against clothes that are not my clothes.

But when I relax, they are mine.

Trumpets give the last call, I roll my shoulders and twist my neck, the face and the hair are not mine.

But when I relax, they are my face and my hair.

And the curtain rises on the me I choose to be.

Pins decorate the dressers lapel, ready for any clothing emergency. His fingers brusque and efficient pull hems and tweak cuffs.  

From the moment we can dress up in a fairy princess gown, we realise that a roll of fabric can change everything about us.

The right clothing can change who we are and how we act. Even as we grow up, the right clothes are essential for the task in hand. Smart clothes for the office. Working clothes for the messy job. Glittery clothes for the party. Comfy clothes for just chilling out in.

Every day is a dress rehearsal.