Some tales cannot be told when someone goes away. There is nothing left to say. Without an ending the beginning becomes blurry and tentative. All that can be known is her sadness. She left when the world was dimming and the moonlight was flickering like and old bulb about to burst. Heads tilted right and starred at images they thought they knew. It’s not that no one cared, but energy and fear is a drain on the spirit.
Uriah closed her book and filled an old tapestry bag with the least of her clothes. From the bedside table she took a small surprisingly round black rock. The rock had been given to her by an old dear friend, now long gone into the deep gray winds. The little rock was the only thing she cared about or needed. As she cradled the rock she felt its power. She held tight knowing it was the memory keeper.
The giver of the rock had told her a story that day. It was about an old women who lived alone in a grand mansion. It was full of objects of great value and beauty. Her life had been full and happy, but as she aged her eyesight went dark and her hearing fell silent. Time was running out, so she took a small and surprisingly round shiny black rock an wrapped it in fine linen that had been dyed the color of her eyes. With a few twists of some black silk she made a braid and placed the rock inside and the hung it around her neck.
To be continued in The Book of Memory – Monsters and Angels (coming soon) …
From my series: Now Playing
Buy from Gallery: Feminine Mystique Art Gallery, Tubac AZ