Many years ago and I mean many because I am getting old and it seems like a long time ago.
I was in Ore Village with Mum by the traffic lights at the bottom of the hill. My poor recall cannot find the exact details to the mind’s eye as to how our conversation came to pass but I do clearly recall her telling me that when she dies she wanted no sadness or grief, the would-be mourners to wear colourful clothing and to have a party.
She also said she wanted to donate her eyes because she could think of nothing worse than being unable to see.
Mum passed away on 21st February 2025.
Other claims she made (about being a witch - albeit a good one) all came to me as if I'd unconsciously made a request to the recall department in my head.
Whilst thinking of these visions I thought of the three ‘Ages’ of a witch's life.
Maiden, mother and crone. She had been and was all three.
People, well meaning people, friends and relatives kept asking how I was, am I coping, how is Dad and so forth.
I realised that I didn't really know, I couldn't vocalise or articulate how I felt.
At times like these I generally resort to ‘scribbling’ stuff down, it helps with the answers generally.
This is what came out of that process. As usual it comes out dressed up as prose with familiar by now characterization. From fragments of many and varied thoughts this became the picture.
As if within the sharp focus of a hurricane's eye The Man stood becalmed. All around him a crowd whirled with vitality and frenetic motion.
The Man however was as taught as a statue is stone and the crowd pressing around seemed oblivious to his presence.
They danced and whirled and wheeled and cavorted, they shouted commotion, embraced and danced, the living colours of their garb like some sort of unfathomable semaphore to joy and vivacity.
Close enough to reach and embrace; a young woman holding her long green dress Flamenco style with one hand, stamped and danced amid the throng. The Man did not reach for an embrace:He knew he could not, locked in stone as he was which was his fetter.
Try as he might to break free, it was not to be, she slipped past with her laughing and red lipstick to be replaced by other dancers and revellers unconsciously committing their dance to the narrative unfolding around The Man who could see and think only, like a disembodiment of the self he knew was there but unable to bring to the fore.
Smoke and incense, the sounds and spectacle of a Mardi Gras passed by The Man, The Soft Parade and the lilt of brass bands snaked away after some time.
The throng was starting to thin, albeit slowly. A middle aged woman and man swept past each holding a young child like precious cargo in their arms.
The woman also holding the hand of a young child older by only a few years than the infants. They were all laughing, joy was in their eyes as they swept past.
There was a pressure to the air around him, this The Man thought of as a benign power to bathe in as only a statue could discern. If he were flesh at that moment he knew it would be balm.
Others came into view, a young man roaring in exultation brandishing his ale mug fiercely like a Norse hero drunk with the fray of life determined to drink it all in whilst he could.
Another young woman, her eyes sad but her smile warm. She seemed to shine like the sun; she glanced up momentarily at the statue and smiled before she slipped out of his sight running after a trail of tobacco smoke that hung in the air and the ruddy faced man enjoying his pipe, there was just time enough left for The Man to realise that the smile was aimed at him.
The crowd thinned further now and further more the smoke and scents of carnival, the vivid procession had dissipated to the finest filigree. The fierce wind of life around him was starting to slow down.
Next he saw a dog pass by stopping briefly but directly in front of him sniffing at the granite boots and looking back to the old couple who held its lead.
The lines on their faces told of their joy and happiness together, they were sage and were happy to bask in the slowly dissipating lust of and for life that had proceeded past The Man in procession before the singularity of this tableau blinked out jolting The Man back to his familiar reality.
Before he woke he realised the old woman with one hand held the man's she was with in tight embrace, while he held the leash with his other.
Her spare hand clutched a book with artful designs and rich decoration to her breast.
The 'camera' pans back to the old man viewing him as he walks away, only now the woman, (his wife of many years) is no longer present. Her light dimmed and by subtle but inevitable degress had gently faded away to the same colour as the sky, she had gone only from the 'here' The Man was witnessing.
The Old Man still held the leash and the dog looked up at him momentarily as if in askance. The Old Man told the dog in whispers that she had not gone and she would always be found in the garden of the place she loved, called and made home and that's where they were
Boyd
19th March 2025
