When afternoons were often spent tucked under the blanket with grandma,
we would delight in our own ways.
She, with aspirin, Cornish wafers, and the television set; I, fixated on the light sinking into dusk across the floral curtains - static and voices thrumming on the hem of my world there.
From the safety of our mutual comfort,I’d watch the blooming roses as they swelled with the shadows, hovering in half form between a print held captive in the sum of threads and the shapes projected from the fading day looming behind them.
I would witness there this soft shift, a metamorphic menace lingering in the unknown. Depths and swathes of gloom casting me into a dimension without boundaries, ceaseless in its space, eclipsing even the edges of grandmas warm body beside me. The cold darkness coming not only for the curtains, but for us too.
