The Invitation
Just this week, my invitation arrived.
On the somersault of a zephyr, it sailed through my bedroom window - tickling Edward’s nose as it passed - to land in my hands with the softness of grace.
Hardly believing my luck, lost in anticipation, I held it awhile before opening - running my forefinger along the ruby red ink of my very own name, emblazoned upon the papyrus.
Finally, I slid my finger under the seal and it opened.
Finally, I slid my finger under the seal and it opened.
One thousand yellow butterflies flew up in the air and I knew it was actually true.
I sent my acceptance on that very day and here I now sit, hands folded, waiting for the performance to commence, waiting for the 22nd.
At present the stage hands are busy. Ripping down the humid curtains, sweeping out the sand. The air in this old theatre fairly crackles with joy as I wait, and I watch, for her entrance.
I catch a glimpse of her every now and then.
See, there she is.
Oh, you can’t see her? Here, take my hand. Now look....
over here, no a little more to the left... now, can you make her out?
Just behind the velvet curtain, just off stage, pacing to and fro... make-up artists running along behind her, adding a bit of extra colour here and there. Hair-dressers trying to tame her wild hair, wardrobe mavens pinning one more golden maple leaf to her russet coloured gown.
Can you hear the orchestra tuning up as I speak?
The sonatas and fugues on the whip of a wind.
The crackles of hearthsides, the hoot of an owl.
As I sit here, a sweetness, a gratitude runs through my soul.
So happy am I to once again be included, to once again nestle down in a familiar front row seat, once more to witness this splendour, this beauty, of autumn.
Open your windows.
Your invitation is coming, if not already here.
