The Traveller by Afrodykie

Mohair and cotton

IT GOES together, like cashmere and silk.

You scratch your head. Hmmm….

Better not tell her that!

So, you keep it to yourself and watch. Quietly. Quietness works for you. Stillness.

You like to feel what words cannot say. You like to let resonance manifest, without the clutter and noise of words.

Ironic, yes, because you are a writer.

But it is so. Their is truth in silence, for then, the heart speaks. Loudly.

You listen what it says, and let it talk. It’s a universal language.

One that you understand. And revel in.

It feels good, where you want to be; where you are, with spaghetti boiling on the stove and the little dog farting next to you.

So real, and familiar, isn’t it? A fart? Kinda like home! No more pretence.

You sleep well, relaxed, after the late and unexpected invitation to dinner.

 You’re settled, after the storm, and a day of tears in the sand, and tea — thank God — with the Kaftan One.

You went there after your tearful trip to the beach.

The London psychologist asks you to please not say anymore.

She opens her book, and leans back, naked.

I’m a therapist, she says. But I’m on a week’s holiday.

You’ve poured out the pain, the confusion and hurt, to a stranger lying next to the Kaftan One’s beach nest.

It’s a coincidence, is it?

It happens like this, she says. You nod your head. Yes, angels are everywhere.

You’re at the Women’s Beach. The shrink has two towels laid out side by side.

You bury your face in the sand and wryly think of the toe jam of the ancients!

A weird thought but really, just imagine who has walked on the sand at Skala Eressos over the centuries.

Your tears dry up when the therapist’s partner bustles in with an attitude: no open arms here!

She literally turns her back on you!

But you feel much better, much calmer.

You’ve said what you’ve had to say, and cried what you’ve had to cry.

You feel grounded, whole and enjoy a coke at the Flamingo Bar.

Then you go to the Kaftan One’s cottage, Sappho Cottage.

She gives your organic Earl Grey tea, and some Norwegian biscuits, rye ones, with a Dutch cheese.

It’s mature, she says, when you comment on the flavour.

Yes, it’s intense yet subtle.

Maturity, like that delightful cheese, is the consolidation of one’s essence. 

You feel you are mature, and at last, you’re comfy in your boots again.

It’s not easy settling in. And your life needs structure, apart from the writing you are doing.

You decide to volunteer your services once a week, on Wednesdays.

You will go to Gaga Animal Care every week, and do what has to be done.

This mission is prompted by Vento, who is at your side again, and this time, you keep her on a short leash.

She’s getting used to you, she seems to like you a lot.

But, these rescue animals, these traumatised dogs don’t trust, at first.

They are a handful.

I know all about that, says Gerbien, who looks after the 30-or so dogs at Gaga, never mind the cats and horses under her wing.

This next week, on May 30, the vets from Austria are coming, again.

They’re on a neutering mission,and Vento is on the list.

She will also need her tick and flea treatment, deworming, and her innoculations, says Gerbien.

Yes, ma’am.

You will talk about dogs tonight, at Miss Muscles’ farewell party.

She’s leaving for home, for Norway, where she will spend the summer on her boat.

She does that, every year, and entertains the stars.

(ends)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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