She whistled to the world but it never echoed back.
The sounds of her surrounds fell silent, stealing her call.
She paused: checking for signals, sounds, vibrations.
The dust of hush allowed her just enough silence to hear herself.
She cupped her ears.
The thunder of her thoughts rolled deep into her belly.
She would never be alone, if she could hear herself think.
She wrote with her soul disguised as her ego. Her truths rolled out cloaked in rubber, bouncing pleasantly off people’s judgements. Had she’d been brave enough, her soul might have said ‘I’m crying’.
Instead of smiling.
But she wasn’t brave.
She woke; baby breath blowing gently on her cheek and tiny fingers reaching knowingly in the dark for the comfort of a mothers presence. Stiff as a board she remained so as not to wake him but instead to stare at him through the slits of her morning eyes. So still and so quiet she took a moment to embrace the lack of space his tiny body provided while in her bed, her feet cold and without a pillow, this tiny person, consuming her world.
He was her world.
She wrapped a scarf of blue winter around her hair, looped her lobes with golden sun and kissed the mirror with warm blood.
She winked, a smirk in her crow’s feet and a dare in her flare.
She looked like a rainbow.
But indeed she was the pot of gold.
She wrote about another half: baked in chardonnay and smooth tunes.
She wrote about another half: full to the brim of ideas and opportunity, colours and numbers.
She wrote about another half that never bothered to write about her.
She stopped writing.
He thought she was a disco ball: a spinning beauty.
He waited for her to turn to him.
The bounce has lost its affect. Swiped shoulders and bumped heads no longer carry an aftermath of sweet apologies, cuddles and laughter; now it’s all raised eyebrows and blame. The cost is higher, the line is longer and the time is shorter.
The jumping castle is gone, deflated and packed away.
The pavement rocks a rainbow of greys and the bounce has left our heels.
Oh, to be a kid again.
He turned water into wine; of course he did! Yet here I am replacing my wine with water in the hope to eradicate the leftover baby weight that shimmies on my hips. If I thought it would do any good, I would give up eating altogether; replacing food with wine. Like a fly, I could float to the tops of glasses on the bubbles of Champagne, flutter in a delicious frenzy amidst a dry Chardonnay or allow the fruity essence of a Sauvignon Blanc to cause my eyes to turn inwards and my body belly up; sigh.
He turned water into wine; of course he did.