My inner clod

I have never been fond of cabinets loaded with picture frames, so I am not sure why I have put them there. Ah! There is no other space. Then why bring out the pictures, anyway? People said I should. It would help me, they said. My inner clod listened to them.

My inner clod, who was trained well by my mother, also dusted all this paraphernalia in anticipation of visitors around teatime yesterday. No, of course the visitors were not coming to look at my cabinet, nor at my photos, but the dust—dare I say a thick layer thereof?—was not pretty, and betrayed my inner clod’s desire for order in all things.

So, while my inner clod was busy dusting, the real me spoke through the dust to images of her dead beloved. I said, “Finally, I get it. When you died, you killed me! You killed the person that always rose to the very grand occasion that you were. It’s okay. I am not really dead. I felt as if I had died – lots of times. I am growing back now, going back to where I started from; going forward. Finally!”

The real me stopped declaiming to the empty air because a passer-by turned towards my shuttered window when they heard the noise.  I have to say, my inner clod did a grand job with the dusting. Pity about the feet of clay.

©2018 Allison Wright