Soapstone Heart

Afterwards, you cradled the scattered porcelain in your jasmine hands, though you knew there was no glue you could mix no matter the gleam of your tools or wonder of your spells.

You brought your magic sewing kit and threaded silver needles with brightly coloured twine, though you knew not even threads of the finest turquoise or strands of the deepest magenta could sew the right stitches.

The pots of tea you brewed conjured the essence of the bottomless carpet bag that carried sugar spoons, chimney sweeps, carousel horses and an umbrella to bear flight across indigo skies when the wind changed. I almost believed you when you rested your palm against my cheek, cool as alabaster, and told me the sweet elixir would fix things.

I yelled at you every time you drew back the curtains.

I spat at you when you ran me baths of lily water and washed my hair with milk and honey.

I clamped my mouth shut when you brought me fish and chips from where we’d been when we fell, when red camellias bloomed in my cheeks and I wore the gold dust of summer in my hair. I refused as you unwrapped the newspaper parcel, steam rising from the salty perch, white and plump, nestled amongst golden chips crisp with oil and salt. My stomach ached and folded further inside the concave between my hipbones.

I fell quiet when you brushed my hair with the long-bristled antique brush of your grandmother’s, who ran it through her long raven hair. When you stroked the bristles across my scalp, I heard the sound of blackbird wings taking flight.

“What would you say to you, if you were me?”

You pressed your icy hands on my body, as though you were trying to soak out a stain.

“I’m not you.”

“What would you say?”

I sighed.

“Don’t give up. Time heals all wounds. Tomorrow’s a new day.”

“Smart arse.” You smiled.

“My heart is a lump of coal,” I whispered, clinging to your jasmine hands as coldness ripped through me, fierce enough to split granite in two. “Don’t leave me.”

You tucked a piece of hair behind my ear.

The last time you came, you brought me a package of apple green paper that sat heavily in my palm.

“Open it, Pandora,” you dared, your eyes glossy as you rubbed the goosebumps from my arms.

I unfolded the tissue paper and held my heart in my hands.

“Soapstone,” you said. “Not coal.”

It was the colour of cream, with thin ribbons of blue veins running through it. I held it to my ear and heard the faintest beat.

“Not coal.” You repeated.

I knew what was coming.

As you turned, I panicked.

“I would say to myself, keep breathing honey. Open the curtains. Put one foot in front of the other.”

You nodded at me, with a wink.

I lifted my soapstone heart to my ear again.

This time the beat seemed a little louder.

---

copyright © 2008, Holly Ringland.

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Tags:

antique, beat, blue, camellia, coal, cold, cream, faint, gold, grandmother, hair, heart, holly, honey, icy, jasmine, milk, palm, pandora, porcelain, raven, red, ribbons, ringland, soapstone, spells, stain, stitches, time, twine, vein and wound