(DA) Dust

I'm not very good at writing poetry- which is kind of what Duelling Amateurs is about- and I've always been amazed by the beauty of dust. But today won't be a poem, but a small blurb about how beautiful dust can be. Dust in the air, floating through beams of sunlight seem to dance, while dust that has settled on a surface and started to gather tells a story. Here's what I mean;

In the early morning sun, glowing golden like autumn leaves, an old woman stood on the tips of her toes and reached up to the top of the book shelf.

Her hand skips over old trinkets, discarded nearly a lifetime ago; a doll, a compass and a broken jewelry box, before her knobbly fingers close around the soft leather spine of an old book. Careful not to lose her balance she stepped away from the shelf. She looked at the book amazed. It was old, and like her reflection; worn with age but still beautiful. Through the thick layer of dust that had collected on the jacket she could still make out the engraved word 'Diary'. 

She sauntered nearer the small attic window, sitting on an old trunk without bothering to wipe off her seat. In the golden sunlight she trailed her hand across the cover. A trail of dust clumps fell from her hand and landed at her feet.

She opened the book with anticipation, her hands shaking in her excitement.The cover creaked slightly, revealing the first faded page of the book. Her glasses lightly perched at the end of her nose as she read the first line written in her old, curly script describing the man of her dreams. 

She read, with rapt attention, as her younger self documented all the ways this man made her happy. She read about their fights, and their adventures. She read about their dates; flowers, and drive-ins, surprise plane rides and trips to the farm. She read about surprises and chores, Holidays and birthdays. And through it all, she's happy because this book contained the best of 'him'.

One page bore a scrap of paper that looked like it had been torn from a news paper. The writing on the scrap was brisk and sloppy, the opposite of her beautiful script. It read,

Even in absence, I love you

 Light refracted off the particles dancing around the pages in her hands, filling the tiny room with wonder. She smiled up past the ceiling rafters toward the heavens and remembered him fondly. 

When the moment was over, and the dust had settled around her, she stood up slowly; her joints refusing to behave after sitting on the trunk, and lay the book down, open to the ceiling.

She brushed the note affectionately with a fingertip and left it there, for him to see the next time that he looked down on her from heaven. 

***

Well that turned into a longer story than intended. And not quite as much about the beauty of dust as it was supposed to be, but I liked how it turned out. So I'm keeping it!

-Brandolyn