There are so many articles, lists, schedules and activities being sent around at the moment that my head is spinning. Yours too? And then there are all the memes saying “you don’t have to be your child’s teacher over this time” – yes, thank you for that, although I had no intention to be. In a list of possible alternative and suitable occupations I know full well that teaching would not come top of my list. Most teachers are patient saints and I am not one of those.
Red for blood that hums with infection
Orange for fruit, to build our defences
Yellow is fear – oozing from our screens.
Green for the fields we can no longer run in
Blue for the ocean’s wet embrace, now beyond our reach
Pink is for wounds. So many that weep
Purple? A heart for courage, perhaps.
We don’t know when this will end, we only know that this is shared.
That we are one somehow.
A trick of the light.
A curve of colour.
A cosmic coincidence.
It was always fragile.
We just forgot that it was.
It wasn’t a talking carpet like the one in Aladdin. There were no furry tassels. It didn’t fly through a dark sky sprinkled with white stars.
Instead, it was heavy and fraying where the edges met the varnished wooden floor. A golden colour that had turned to beige, it had red shapes on it that were now rust, green that had faded to yellow. The carpet was in my parents’ bedroom, down the long passage that creaked. If you knew where the creaks were, you could leap silently from side to side as you tried to escape your room, without anyone hearing. One wrong step though, and the whole house would wake.
It’s been raining softly, ever since the light peeked through the gap between the curtains this morning. I heard it last night in bed too. Woke up, felt that rush of sound, wondered briefly what it could be, until my heart beat the word “RAIN, RAIN, RAIN” along with the sound of the falling water and then I smiled, turned over and closed my eyes once again.
So we won the Rugby World Cup huh. Who would have thought? One minute this country is in despair and devoid of hope, and the next minute we’re ecstatic. This is the dichotomy of living here. It’s why people struggle to live anywhere else, because love it or hate it, there is nowhere else that makes you feel more alive. Is this a “normal” way to live? Veering from agony towards ecstasy within a few days? I doubt it. But what is normal anyway?
London had taught her about all the shades of grey. People were not necessarily good, nor were they bad. They held both goodness and badness in them, and the people you wanted in your life were those trying to balance more of the good chips on the one side, even if the side with badness piled on to it kept looking as though it may topple over.