for the smell of leather and dust |
no cobwebs here. the store is cheery yellow and smells of lavender and age. a hush surrounds the contents as if I walk a cathedral— or a cemetery. I explore the past, a cherry shelf, a butter dish, a love seat in wood with a dark patina that deepens in the hollows where lovers once sat. I touch the ring on my finger, and imagine us seated, his arm about my waist, my head on his shoulder, but I fear the delicate shape will fail under the weight of the present. deeper in the shop, I find Aurora’s doom— a spinning wheel, the pedals worn and the tension screw loose with neglect. I wonder what would happen if I touched the sharpened spindle. near is a niddy noddy— a spindled stick, just long enough to grasp tight in my hand, with opposing crossbars at either end, used to wind skeins. I wonder what yarns this one has seen as I run my fingers down the cables on my scarf— a rainbow of greens and blues. at the back of the store, the books. I run my finger down the worn spines of a treasure trove with no outward inkling of what lies inside. I open them, one by one and find a fairy story. my ambrosia— the liquor of the gods. I breath in, drunk on the smell of leather and dust, and prepare to read. line count: 48 Prompt for: Jan 21, 2016 ▼ |