For The Sunday Muse Prompt #175, and the shades of that garden it reminds me of: ** I am dreaming again of days gone by, of nights - heavy with the weight of solitude - lightened by the joy of discovery, a light born of tumult in an age of innocence. This is what the glow-worms in their flitting feel, each shimmer of light a whisper into the night to see and be seen.
It struck me the other day that even after a year out here, there are still work colleagues whose faces I have not seen without masks on. Arriving in the middle of the pandemic, masks were required in all public spaces - and rigorously enforced - with more than a few people cited for either having theirs pulled down or not wearing one as they approached the security gates and barriers that dot the landscape. Only when I then see a face without a mask does it register that I have made up the hidden contours, seeing the mask as an integral part of these faces. This brings with it a mild sense of discomfort, stemming from - I think - the fact that even though I have built relationships and friendships with these people, their uncovered faces scream unknown rather than familiar. ...
For H, and The Sunday Muse prompt #170: ** She lingers like a ghost in the night, this memory of my mother, framed by a distant light: the stately stillness of her furrowed brow, the slight tilt of her chin catching the light, defiant. The moment when the lone tear hangs - perched impossibly as though straining against the world - comes to me again and again in a vision of the night, its lingering like a thread tethering me in my seasons of incertitude.