No return address, curious. I run my finger over the pointed top of the envelope, my name inked diligently below on the broad side in an enchanting cursive. The wax seal on the inverse panel glistens in the light as I turn the folded parchment over & over in my hands. Occasionally my fingertips caress the soft compress leaving behind a sensation of comfort & familiarity. Upon turning my attention back to the pressed fastening it stands out to me that the indentation of the seal is foreign to me, an unknown entity or house that I have yet to come across or that has possibly slipped my mind. I reach for my letter opener, the blunted blade is cold in my hands sending pin pricked goosebumps down my wrist. I press the tip of the instrument firmly under the binding, then hesitate to take in the insignia of my mysterious sender once more. One fell swoop & the letter is free, springing from its paper imprisonment & cascading folded sheets onto the floor. Casting the newly vacated envelope aside I reach anxiously for the message, wary of what news it may bring.
Object Writing: Easel
It stares tentatively at me every time I enter the spare room at the end of the upstairs hall, longing for the attention it had amorously received in its former life. What once belonged to my inspired grandmother now stands forgotten, collecting dust out of sight & out of mind. A half finished painting rests lazily against its frame, the acrylic paint of which still encrusts the shelf that hoists it aloft. It's been a while since this easel has been loved, properly loved that is. It was once the advocate for beautiful expressions of art; oil slicked splotches of plumage, delicately washed lofty cliffs overlooking the sea set under the watchful eye of a salt white lighthouse, true enchantment put to pigment. Now it yearns for such activity, its use long dismissed by the passing fancies of a neuro-divergent brain. Poor, lonely easel, you are so deserving of the flourish of life you once received in the past. I guess it may be time to once again crack out the paints & feel the tug of creativity.
Object Writing: Pavement
Glossy pools of silvery water sit anchored in their valleys, each receiving new tsunamis with every fresh drop of sky that plunges into their shallow depths. Reflective images of trees & clouds ripple away into the aqueous black with each cascading wave. Mountains of inky pebbles extend from the water reaching fruitlessly towards the heavens bridled by their mass & rigidity. It's a small world this splash of life giving sustenance I've stumbled upon, yet another drizzly day blossoming their abundance into existence, their multitudes extending as far as my eyes can see. They tumble recklessly into one another, spilling their burden into their companion just down stream from them until the bounds of each of their shores is compromised & runs its contents lazily into its next of kin. The pavement glistens in the gray gloom of this rainy afternoon. I splash vivacious yellow across the face of each ocean as I pass hearing the soft pitter-patter of the midday precipitation dash against the hood of my polyester rain coat.
Object Writing: Chapel
Time & time again I've passed it; its old weathered doors, its crumbling steps, & its stained glass remnants of a faith long since supplanted from its grounds. The muffled scuff of my worn work boots click-clack along the well trod cobblestones that lie in its ominous shadow, stopping just for a second to take in its former majesty. The wind carries with it the spirits of the forgotten as it whips through the exposed rafters & returns to bear its divinity as it softly caresses my skin & lovingly lifts the straggling hairs from my brow. Tranquility. It's a rush of warmth from deep within that spreads capriciously throughout my limbs. It is memory, the recollection of time long gone & people long since passed. It is the warm hearth unto which I hang the foundations of my being, the essence of my inspiration. But with the expiration of this town so too has its chapel diminished. Short of ruin, these mildewed & rotting halls once bore witness to all the goings on we as a community shared. This sanctified ground once saw fit to host unions, separations, celebrations, & seasons of mourning. It now plays host to not but the few pigeons that call it home & the ghosts & echos of the kinship of a bygone age.