Sitting in her father's shop, the smell of leather and polished wood. The feel of the paper in her hands. The ring of the bell above the door and the way the dust motes seemed to float in the light like fairies.
Tucking her chin into her chest and summoning up the courage to knock on the door, knowing she’s an hour late. The smell of the night behind her. The warmth and light as the door opens, the ruffle of her hair and the heat of her mother's hand, flaky with dried flour from the dough she’d been preparing for the next day.
The crunch of snow beneath her boots, rushing home from an afternoon with a boy she couldn’t even remember the name of now. The way her face fitted perfectly into the crook of his neck and the overwhelming smell of fresh straw.
‘The Bloody Wind Brings and Still and Silent Laughter’ had, over the course of her life, come to the conclusion that whatever drugs they'd given to her mother during childbirth, they had been far too good.
Her mother had called her Laughter when she was a babe, and Windbringer when she was old enough to dash around the house. Her partner had called her Bringslaughter, and her children, ‘mum’. She called herself many variations, depending on the day and the mood, but right now she called herself nothing, content to doze.
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The fire warming her feet, the memories rushed past her one by one, unrelated to anything but welcome all the same.
Painting the house for the first time, her children around her feet. Her son bringing a bunch of flowers on her birthday. The time the cat had fallen into the water pail, and how he had emerged at speed, almost ending up in the fire instead.
Her eyes half-closed, she nudged the teapot closer to the fire with her toes. In her hands, she played with an old pepper pot, which she had picked up off the dining table as she passed, for no real reason other than to have something tactile to play with. The pot was modelled like a bird, with one wing outstretched. It had once had a partner, to fit inside the space, but she had no recollection of what had happened to it. Perhaps one of the children had carried it away, to live a separate life, away from its pepper-bearing friend.
The end of summer, the autumn light through the window as she scrubbed the floor, lighting up the parquet behind her like liquid caramel.
The ache in her knees which had never really gone away.
The ghost of a song heard long ago on her lips, she dislodged the cat from her lap, pushed the pepper pot down the side of the chair, and leaned forward to check the kettle, just as it started to whistle. Perfect.
Settling back in the chair, cup of tea in her hands, she closed her eyes again, and let the memories take her away.