Lorna the Librarian

I had it packed away in a turquoise silk bag, and I rarely touched it. I mean I wouldn’t have touched it ever except out of curiosity I checked to see if it was still there. At my birth it was given to me—so blank and clean it was. As I grew I polished it and engraved it with beautiful symbols of life and roses and stars in the heavens, and it meant everything to me. I consecrated it and watched and waited for a voice to say “well done” or “I’m watching”; in the silence of the room I heard only my heartbeat. So perhaps my heartbeat held the key.

One day my house burnt down and in the ashes I found my treasure all tarnished and blackened with my life’s valuables stuck to it in twisted masses—melted by the intensity of flame. But it retained its shape, and with some polish and hand labor I shone it bright again and then packed it away. I packed it away while I travelled; I packed it away while I worked and raised a child and raced from day to day.

Yesterday I slipped it from its silk cocoon, and studied the figures; and I wondered if I had made a mistake. Through what keyhole did I figure out that man came first and the universe second? I had a splendid laugh. The infectious laughter caught my son and hurdled him to my side; and I placed it—golden alluring light—squarely in his hands