holding in small hands
Hiding between four legs, beneath a sheer red cloak - hemmed roughly by the smooth falls of fabric; the corners of which point in to set the scene. A table, and underneath, two small children play where they seek. The game is open to speculation and as ever, the space deceives. It is the same world inside as out, but the small space they have made home to this other universe is ready fitted, as a dark patch in the kitchen of an everyday house just like yours. Gathered in the sounds as they are heard, hardly ever made out for noise but sometimes mischief; this everyday happens to be another, where overhead cracks into crackle and the day comes like all the other magic, which the children have learned is neither black nor white. Words bake in other rooms, but here with the heat of a working home, the imagination of each child opens up hands, taking as its tool all artisan intentions. All knowing, together they move heaven and earth to raise their speech above sight to the frequency of a star in space, each one feeding off the details of an unknown item as its form makes impression into them; hands filled like minds or questions.
Different to holding with hands, but no less carefully, the largest of two glass jars is lifted into play. Open mouthed, ever since its hot bulb body was blown and cooled and taken and sold and given back, only to one day be found in a second hand shop, which also stocked basic ornaments of all those houses you or I have never been. The heads of once wild animals stand amongst the tick-clocks that need to be wound, but the picture tells a story and as with all children, they were always looking to listen. The table was by far their favourite hiding place, not least because of its old smell. It also had been there for as long as each of their memories; stood on four legs and solid like a nearby tree bed, but that was outside. In the kitchen, where it was normal to hear all sorts of hard and sharp tweaks and cuts, it was by now for the rest of the family a part of the function, habitually easing and yet the place of both breakfast and its serial conflict. Like all children, they know the best place to hide is somewhere that you can be elsewhere and still know the dangers are securely locked away, within their own limits and restraints. There is only one problem with being a child, sometimes you are part of the recall, cursed to be the
blessing of almost every pair who no longer know that’s what they are. Childhood carries, different to holding with hands but there is far more to take in than the small few years they are given; the children play happily in between.
In a queuing up of quick tempers; the sky spreads like silent fire, first to the door in the corner of the room upstairs, where its entrance gives only clues as to what has gone wrong. Angry eyes move and don’t say much, the threat too is pushed into the enclosed space; the door stays shut.
The energy is embolism contained in disorder, each
spreading into the clutch of sky, which hits on the window and takes the blood from eyes, still pumping their own torn perspective. It is at times like this, when the children’s eyes close chase for the safety of the kitchen (food and warmth) and their faces soften for the good times, the good tempers. Now, they run, one after the other, after the safe ground of shadow, hung as forever beneath a hard wood table. Going unnoticed, in the mists of middle age grown ups, making love and war and mess - unknown to the children, but the signs no less familiar. This time not staying, the first time was different for both. The loomed shadows of those other figures opposite the same mother or father, face against. Separate before, it was a great thing to play now together, sometimes singing their words as rescue to each other’s open hands, different to holding, instead they would let go, nothing like the prayers they must say at school.
Sometimes eyes sink into the darkest knot of wood, there is no thing to be scared by; nothing is worse and even the grown ups have no idea what to do when nothing comes up. There are no problems for the children, and luckily the adults are often busy entertaining themselves with mistakes and second glances that have become a straight forward stare into nothing. Luckily, grown ups cry but often they cry alone; I think that they forget about the witches in the table. The children don’t. The sky spreads blue onto red, and they are covered once again, as though each were the cure for the other to sleep sound, knowing they were not ever alone.