My heart ached, foolishly. For Scotland. Why would I be homesick for a place I’d never been — or seen? Yet I was. As if I could touch the trees. Broad and stark. Deep and strong. With bold, bright, green leaves. Inviting sunlight. To peek through.
Sparkle. Shine. Share.
Abigail Tinsdale cared for her dear father, uncles, neighbors, all. Appropriated their discards to build a kingdom of displaced treasures: Pots. Pans. Teacups. Carpets. Rugs. Quilts.
And the like.
Blues. Blacks. Greens. Reds. Tins. Tans.
She might have slipped through the shaded nights, without a whisper, question or sign. But, as she collected and collated her gems, stars, and pearls, she asked too many questions. Like:
“What might that be worth?”
“If me cousin Liz traded that at Dornoch, what could she get?”
“I’ve a friend at Aviemore wit one like that? Is she smart to keep — or sell?”
Abi woke up early, each day. To ponder such things. As birds sang. Softly. In the background. She stood, watching crisp, clear sunrises, while (unbeknownst to her) coveting eyes watched her. (Had she seen them carve her outline? Had she? If so, Abi might have poked their sullied eyes with her sharp, clean, white knuckles — but wealth was on her mind, not beaus.)
Beauty of the sunshine. Brief, bright, pop. Fading into morning. Transcendental — then gone. Stop. Deep breath. Exhale. Turn. Back to the library; back to the books: Some read; some not.
Luck would have given Abigail something to nibble. Morsels to taste. Crumbs. But she ne’er kissed luck. Ne’er caressed its soft, pale face. No. Rather. She slapped it. As if he’d been a mean old man who smoked gnarled caramel-colored pipes stuffed with cheap tobacco, laced with neat flowers, and sweet smoke — the kind you’d smell deep in the woods if you’d lost your way on a Sunday morn.
What then? What dreams? Walking tip-toed — on warm, moist dirt.
Abigail — young now, but old then. Lonely. Scratching stray cats. Drinking hot tea.
“Ring!”
What’s that?
Wrong number?
Shy lover?
Cheap friend?
A signal, perhaps. Prompting a long night — of short waits. Hobbling to the door. One time. Two. Five times. More. Each check, hot air escapes — dropping temperatures inside. While, outside, crowds gather—curious about the odd activity in this old, wood-framed shack. Will they wait all night, this sparse group of seedy seekers? Welcoming dawn with sweet brews and salty bread? Sweaty brows and lips of red? Leaving marred marks on metal mugs and thin-blown glass — like ghost kisses from the dead?
(One might forgive the first kiss — uninvited as it was. But the second and third — tolerated? Not at all . . . Would her Mother be delighted by the spotlight and the fuss? Might she be all agitated by the caution and by us. As she looks at all the make-up, painted eye-brows and the cut — did she see a tainted daughter, lovely Geisha, or a slut?)
Money changes hands. For worried work un-done. Then partners. Walk away. Did they ponder? Such illusions? Soiled dreams? Along the way? Like a herd of Finnish reindeer. Ridden hard. And put away. Or a skull, of painted roses. Filled with rot — and deep decay?
No, I’ve not been. Out to Scotland. Why I’m homesick for that place? For the sweet trees. Broad and green leaves. And the sunlight. On my face. See the sparkle? Share the see-through: Crystal air, and keeping pace. If I try now. To be gone there. Full of deep life — touched by grace.
