Dorothy has come home

There’s sand in my pocket and a seagull passing by in the orange sky. It’s the day before yesterday, and I am on my very own northern adventure. Fresh from many firsts. Affairs that made my body leap to the moon. Strides with strength sealed at my hips. Satisfaction from toil of making real things happen making my spine straighten with pride.

You’ve not yet appeared in my still cloudless sky.

I’ve not yet returned, refreshed, bronzed and flourishing to see your familiar name waiting for me. Not yet read those words of reverie for Dorothy and her ruby shoes.

Not yet needed to ignore the pleads, stern lectures and watchfulness as I danced into your sweeping tornado. So so far from home did I dance into its intoxicating destruction.

I haven’t let you take the peeler to my skin, until I was no longer an onion that could make you cry, but drops of tears slipping through palms, becoming a giant blue puddle, at your cold feet.

They are all tomorrows, and I am here before they happen. The day before yesterday.

All these tomorrows have formed dandelions, up above between the reeds in the sand dunes.

The sobs, anger, frustration, disappointment, anticipation, excitement, glee, curiosity, ignorance, of each of the days spent in that tornado, form a long line of delicate white flowers.

And I watch as a girl, no older than eight, with a long mane like young Dorothy, a white dress with teal dots, and twenty freckles on her nose, beings to pick them. Seventeen in all.

She slips off her red patent shoes, and walks down to the shore, the waves flapping at her bare feet. Each dandelion takes a turn in being caught up by the current of the sky, as she raises her hands upwards she smiles as they waltz in the wind.

When they are all in motion, and her hands are empty, I walk down beside her and take her hand in mine. We gaze at the burnt horizon as the dandelions become nothing but specks. We watch until they are all melted into the orange.

We sit down cross legged, and bury our toes in the sand. Share sliced pieces of mango and hum to Pandora’s Aquarium. Laugh as a dog chases a boy riding his bike across the beach, feel the dusky rays on our backs. The wind settles, the air is gentle and together we begin to dream believable dreams of new tomorrows.

Dorothy has come home.

Dorothy has come home


Joined January 2008

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Featured in A Novel Idea May 2009

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