RETURNING
I walk the busy road, stop at an old wrought iron gate, it squeaks and is open.
Oh how I love these trees, this stony path.
Being early Summer bees are singing and the sweet smell of honeysuckle delights me.
I approach the house. Rose-tinted creeper hides old orange bricks. Bright fuchsias slouch on either side of a green wooden hall-door.
“Blacky, is this you? My darling little Blacky-cat. Can you really remember me?”
I hear a whistling, a sound so familiar. My Dad is approaching from the back of the house. (Will I hide)?
From the kitchen a lovely soft contralto voice hums.
“Mary, is supper nearly ready?” “No Harry, it will take at least another half an hour.”
I am not sure whether to use the old key I have kept so safely all these last ten years?
Maureen Weldon
[First published on “Rivertrain”, Morelle Smith’s blog, Summer 2014.]
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