In Dublin (2009)

by Susan Abraham

Somewhere in the long afternoon that patiently measured the sundown, I spied the refracted light of an autumn moment. Elongated shadows clapped at the walls as a russet curtain slid swiftly into the world of a cheerful orange. The hues which shook hands in the way of cautious strangers now glowed like happy old friends. My curtain billowing about in the curious breeze, threatened to shroud the room like a proud desert tent lest I breathe a word. Or so I imagined. I envisaged chilled wine frozen forever into a tall glass before it could touch my lips. I remembered a ballad called For Emily. Once more, the guitarist would purr the delicious word organza, like a blanket to hug my thoughts. I perceived the reference of a Garfunkel moment then, dreaming only of tea and light and my playful curtain having sprouted a magic wing.

Photograph is writer’s own.

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