Spoiler! :
December writing
1st December 15
Koselig
My mother used to count the days down with spices, 13th was ginger, 15th was cinnamon, 11th was clove but the first spice was a nameless one.
On those days my mother would dust the shelves clear of their cobweb memories, and puff out the secrets between floorboards until her cheeks are red like the hollies on the windowsill
Then she’d dip a brush into the nameless spice and spread it across the house, and it smells like the warm afternoon sun on a lazy spring day, it tastes like a favourite childhood dish stored in the attics of your mind.
You see the sunlight filter through the fading black strands of her hair like freshly peeled willows. And you feel a strange, unknown ache in your heart. Maybe elves are constructing unknown waterways in the canals of your arteries, and you’re scared.
Of course you’d be, and it’s alright. Just hold tight to the patchwork sails, you’ve stitched them with concentrated moonlight afterall.
~
the two of you sit, with the bucket of nameless spice between you and your mother holds your hand in hers and you feel the calluses formed by the sands of time. You rub them between your fingertips and feel the million grooves sinking in like meteorites into your swampy heart.
‘not all days are beautiful’ your mum tells you tracing hidden pathways up your arm, ‘there are days when the sunlight burns too brightly for your eyes’
you hide in the cocoon of her embrace, cheek against the steady rhythm of her heart. A steady spiral, in the ocean of amorphous waves
‘there will be days when your legs buckle into crumbs and crows feast upon the entrails of your thoughts, but it’s alright to be afraid’
it’s only natural because not all days are good, and not all days are bad
1st December 15
Koselig
My mother used to count the days down with spices, 13th was ginger, 15th was cinnamon, 11th was clove but the first spice was a nameless one.
On those days my mother would dust the shelves clear of their cobweb memories, and puff out the secrets between floorboards until her cheeks are red like the hollies on the windowsill
Then she’d dip a brush into the nameless spice and spread it across the house, and it smells like the warm afternoon sun on a lazy spring day, it tastes like a favourite childhood dish stored in the attics of your mind.
You see the sunlight filter through the fading black strands of her hair like freshly peeled willows. And you feel a strange, unknown ache in your heart. Maybe elves are constructing unknown waterways in the canals of your arteries, and you’re scared.
Of course you’d be, and it’s alright. Just hold tight to the patchwork sails, you’ve stitched them with concentrated moonlight afterall.
~
the two of you sit, with the bucket of nameless spice between you and your mother holds your hand in hers and you feel the calluses formed by the sands of time. You rub them between your fingertips and feel the million grooves sinking in like meteorites into your swampy heart.
‘not all days are beautiful’ your mum tells you tracing hidden pathways up your arm, ‘there are days when the sunlight burns too brightly for your eyes’
you hide in the cocoon of her embrace, cheek against the steady rhythm of her heart. A steady spiral, in the ocean of amorphous waves
‘there will be days when your legs buckle into crumbs and crows feast upon the entrails of your thoughts, but it’s alright to be afraid’
it’s only natural because not all days are good, and not all days are bad
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