Across the shop floor
If walls could talk, perhaps you’d do away with us altogether. If the secret keepers don’t keep secrets, do they serve any purpose at all? If your hiding places shouted out your hidden selves, would you, perhaps, be happier? And if the guardians of your worst selves let all and sundry know who you really are, perhaps you would learn to guard yourselves better.
Sylvia We drove up the snowy, winding road towards the cozy A-frame cabin. I was having to concentrate hard on the curves, black tarmac weaving a path through a formless white edging, pockets of trees becoming patches of woodland, and then parting to reveal the snow cloaked meadow, and ahead, the steeply pitched timber roof and narrow porch of our home for the weekend. Golden light glowed behind what I hoped were modern double glazed windows, like beacons calling us home, and I felt my shoulders begin to drop. Nearly there, and no kids in the car. Just one small bag each, and the bag full of food we had stopped and picked out together 30 miles back, at the last sizeable town. There had been something exciting about choosing that food – two breakfast, one lunch, two dinners, just for us. We could have whatever we wanted. A tingling remnant of the early days of making a home with one another had lent the aisles a jolliness I had not felt in a supermarket for at least a decade, though three jars of our daughter’s favourite pasta sauce, hard to find near home, had made their way into our trolley, and I had wondered aloud how they were getting on without us as I put them in.