An enthralling read by a very clever writer and friend.
Our resident astrologer was a strict vegetarian Hindu who wore his caste marks on his forehead. With stained fingers he spread out charts and filled the room with the smell of ink and cigarette smoke. His hands were papery; his breath a sigh, and his stooped hunch suggested a lifetime of poring over the lifelines of the rich and entitled.
Why and how he appeared on our doorstep, I have no idea. We weren’t his usual clients. For a start we had no money, or that’s what our father told us anyhow. And Dad wasn’t about to part with the little he had to find out if his sons were going to America or if his daughters were marrying rich men next year, which appeared to be what the astrologer promised. I knew this because Sujata’s parents, unlike ours, had money. They had been told that Sujata would marry a…
View original post 1,287 more words
Perth Words... exploring possibilities. 
She’s been gone for many years, but still, caught unawares…
This customer looked so like; sounded very similar and her mannerisms – even her stature – she could have been my mum! I just couldn’t take my eyes off her.
Although we were six deep with customers, I took off after her, rushing to catch up before she disappeared – desperate not to lose ‘her’ – again!
I can’t remember what I said which convinced this lovely lady from Tasmania, to sit with me on a stone wall in the sunshine with crowds walking around us, and let me tearfully explain.
So many similarities; English upbringing, boarding school, love of books, music, nature, roses and her huge garden at home where she grew a lot of what she needed to eat.
Probably, she said, why her son turned to cooking – he was a visiting celebrity chef and she had come over to keep him company.
Needing to hear her talk, watch her eyes smiling at me in gentle understanding, eventually – reluctantly, gave her a hug ‘goodbye’. (Living down south, I hadn’t been able to…)
Hubby had to carry on, cope on his own with a rush of Fudge-a-holics, while I cried for my loss, all over again.
Sleep
I can
only consider
soft eyes
repose
calm, sweet face
small breaths
’til I realise
they’re mine.
I breathe
and contemplate
the alternative
only when
someone asks…
Frances Macaulay Forde © 2006