holiday

One day... I want to sit cross-legged on the floor of her shop. I will bury my hands in a soft heap of feathers and fish out burnt oranges and melon pinks. My knees will play hide and seek, lost in the flirtatious ribbons, inches and yards of old and new ribbons; and lace too: lace is very flirtatious. And then I will remember the ferns and willow branches arching over the side of the brown basket, alongside the pitchers and little baskets of grasses and twigs and lichens and mosses and skeletal leaves. And then there will be beads, buttons, and pieces of colored glass and ancient sequins and real looking diamonds and rubies, and they will find their destiny sewn on ruched fabric or glued on headdresses and hems. And from under the creaky door, the winter breezes will rush in and prowl around the room; but the warm air whooshing through the rusty heater vents will chase them away. The room will smell of vanilla candles and old things and of greenery and drapes and dust and of my hot rooibos tea sitting there on the window sill; and we will listen silently to the rain pattering on the roof and on the sidewalk. And she, with her weathered grey hair and I with my youthful red, will sit there on the floor. And we will make things.