Monday, 1 December 2008

George

She said it so many times that she thought about making a sign to hold up to him instead. But George never took much notice of words, spoken or unspoken. This child she had taken in was a wild one and she had decided, years ago, to leave him to the whims of the breeze. If George ever closed a door or a window behind him, then she would probably never recover from the sight of it. 

She had long given up checking all the entrances and exits. It was impossible in a house this size. But sometimes coming home at twilight it bothered her, not knowing if George was in or out, or who else might have walked in uninvited and might be sitting at the kitchen table.

Blackbirds, fox, neighbour's cat, children, dust, leaves, a homeless person in need of shelter, butterflies, all seemed oddly welcome in the rambling creaking house. The squirrel who took to sitting statuesque on the mantelpiece, with it's black beads of unblinking eyes and neatly folded hands, made her cry out a few times when it's tail twitched, but the truth was, they all warmed the house with their visits. It had always seemed so un-lived in before.

And now, with the doors and windows swaying as the weather pushed in, with the breath of breeze and the percussion of small feet and grit and leaf litter running down the bare boards of the wide hallway, it seemed like the empty house had never been more full.

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This piece was inspired by the photo on Monday Mural for 30th Nov at poefusion.blogspot.com
Thanks, Michelle.