Inflated memories of a nan

Home cooking, smell so pungent. Nostalgic even. 50’s housewife, pinafore, cooking in heels. Window open letting in a syrupy warm breeze. Carrying the smell to the neighbouring house, knock on the window. Instead of 1 there is now 3 for tea plus a toddler too. Fine china, flower patterns, gingham rag . Spuds, carrots, parsnips, thick gooey gravy. Scraps for the shaggy dog. Cat Is hovering nearby, meowing a soft familiar sound. Sniffing around the plates. SHOO! SCRAM! Claw screeching, THUD. Pleasantries said. Clinking of silver, the loudness of chewing and low level “mmm”’s. Silence. Warm kitchen, empty plates, full bellies, wide smiles. Thank you’s. Jelly and custard on the floor, “oh im so sorry, let me get that”, that gingham rag comes in useful. Cat already fighting the dog over who gets first lick, SHOO! “get ouuuut of it!!” cockney accent. Hugs and goodbyes, pinching of sweet cheeks. The washing up can wait.  Kicks of heels, AHHHH! Slips on slippers, falls helplessly onto moth eaten armchair. Silence. Cats slinks into the living room, climbs up arm chair. Snuggles onto lap. Dog sits by feet. All is quiet. Fur floating in the air. Wedding ring on an old swollen finger stroking that equally as old bony spine. Aniseed sweets, tobacco, mouldy furniture. Patch work quilt. Sweet life.

that stone has a personality

Left without even looking at myself in the mirror, very much preoccupied with my mental state to even consider anybody else’s feelings of what I look like. Shading my soul with my big circle sunglasses. They are my security, like a door is to a cat that has agoraphobia. Walking along the trodden pine trails, the undergrowth is teething with miniature bug lives, they solider on with life like little troopers. If Mr ant penetrated his best mate’s wife he just takes it in his ant stride. He will carry on cutting that leaf or collecting that fly. Rigor mortis has set in so much and is too heavy to carry for him so he cuts of one wing to make it lighter. Nothing is impossible for Mr ant, especially when it involves helping out his own. Warmth is in the air, its static, water trickles over the pebbles; spherical ones, Quasimodo like ones, square ones. The fact that they are all so imperfect makes the sound of trickling water immaculately perfect. Like someone gently blowing on hand made panpipes. I really ought to take of my shades but I don’t even want the wildlife to catch a peak at my watering soul, my miserable face might catch. You can get lost in a miniature world like that. Rubbing my nose, I come across a scab… I didn’t look in that shiny thing, the one that tells us we are not perfect, yet I’m still finding out I’m not, maybe I should have looked in the mirror. I picked up a rock, it was heavy, my arm drooped a little. I glared at it for a while, noticing the moss overgrowing on it, taking it over, that’s he’s life goal I said judgingly. Gawking at it. It had little little tiny stones on it, each one looked individual, I pointed at them giving each a name…Cesar, Hank, Gina, Churchill (that was the biggest smallest one of them all), Regina, Summer, Pippin. All these imperfection made the stone perfect, it wasn’t the best looking stone as they go but it meant something, it had depth, the stone had a personality!! Every deposit on that stone was part of its history and the story telling was endless. This one stone washed away my misery. I lugged the stone all the way home with me, smiling every time I looked down at it. Only I knew what it meant, only I understood that stone. I looked at other stone on the way home, perfectly formed ones. I turned my nose up at them, they don’t hold anything special. Not like MY stone, rock, perfectly imperfect object. I put it on my shelf. That scab on my nose? I left it there until it fell off. It was my story.