No consideration is given to attire when spiralling into an unknown land. I tugged tightly on my satin robe making sure I was decent to meet the unknown. In my left hand of hope I clutched a postcard. Two nights earlier it had been slipped underneath my front door. There had been no noise to alert me. When I opened the door to catch the postcard giver there was nobody in sight. I closed the door and slipped down the wall. I can’t explain the sensation. All I recall is my senses had been supercalafragalistically charged.
I flipped the postcard over hoping to find cursively formed romantic ink. It was blank, yet I was certain I could taste the ink in the air. Closing my eyes I willed a breathy translation. Warmth slithered under the space between the door and the floor. I immediately opened my eyes believing I would see floating silver particles. I searched behind the floating dust hoping the silver particles were playing hide and seek. Alas, no. I bowed my dejected head into my lap; the postcard face looked up and directly into my soul windows. I shuddered with recognition. She was the face that haunted the only recurring dream I’ve ever had.
This realisation was doing an acrobatic performance through my mind. It was always the same and would forever be so. Rolling hills covered in clover. The time is dusk; the time of the golden light. A woman wearing a long rich burgundy velvet dress is stepping one foot in front of the other. Her movement is deliberate and elegant. A bluebird is perched in an apple tree, he is singing her name. I am sure it must be her name, for she stops and in one fluid movement she sits down on the grassy clover. Time cascades quickly. I hold onto the moment and paint her face into my memory. She dissolves into the morning rainbow.
I am drowning
in the sea of clarity
there is no postcard giver
she slipped out of my robe pocket
a simple brown card
I had painted
a hundred years ago.