THURSDAY: Postcard Story #2

BY CATHERINE SWORD

Copyright is held by the author.

THE COOL BODY lies upon the warm earth. Worn, tired feet that have plodded over miles and miles of fields and sidewalks and mountain paths, now are splayed to the air above.  Neat, clean, grey pants, going-somewhere-special kind of pants, are soft and light against the dry skin. The left hand lies, palm on the grass, long, green blades between the fingers.  The right hand, oh the one that so gently guided children across busy streets, through scary woods, this hand lays reverently over the heart.

It seemed the whole world breathed peace into this one moment. The warm autumn scented air was a mother’s breath as she kissed her child into pleasant dreams. The trees, with straggly leaves, were grandfather’s rough whiskers. Uncles, Aunts, in their musky wolves’ coats, turned their noses into the breeze and then made their way to this place.

This place where full, white clouds skim over the surface of glassy eyes.

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