An angel poking the three kings, don’t you just love this concept? To say nothing of the three Kings as bedfellows. Perhaps travelling together meant they had to rough it a bit. I wish an angel would poke the conscience of Theresa May and her bed fellows and open their eyes. ‘Oy you, leave it out!’
The world faded to black and white, driving past Cadair Idris. A believer in portent and omen for no other reason than life is made up of so many coincidences and near misses that just maybe omens exist too, I think today just might have been the real thing.
December 12th was, as some may know, the day of the official online launch of a self published book that has been waiting in the wing folds of my life for too long. I duly prepared for the uncomfortable zone of maximum internet coverage, even scheduling posts, but in the early hours the photograph of the front cover, the beautiful moon wave by Lateefa Spiker, corrupted every time I tried to add it. By then I had adopted a Doris Day cavalier attitude to this mechanical failure: que sera, sera, and decided to sleep off the niggle of worry.
The first phone call of the day, usually a mechanical voice offering a new boiler in exchange for the old when we don’t even have a boiler, turned out to be my sister. I was forewarned. My mother was ill. In a split we decided the day could be spent no other way.
This is a long winded way of saying a big thank you to all who encouraged, tweeted and liked all those posts and that coming here to be with my sister and my mother today was the right decision.
The rabbit who sits in my mother’s garden has been absent for days. It’s an intermittent rabbit at best and doesn’t move when it’s there. You have to look for it in whatever location it has chosen for its intermittent presence.
Hard to say how old it is. It could be ancient and in its wisdom just sits and thinks, contemplating maybe or just sits, content enough, not even twitching or nibbling.
I wonder if it’s not an incarnation, a visitation (intermittent) from a past friend.
Let’s face it at 93 that could be most of them.
And then I wonder if it is an indication of the mood she will be in when I get there, and she refers to herself when she says, ‘The rabbit is here again.’
Perhaps the rabbit is an admonishment or better, an alter ego, especially now that Ma does not go out much herself and the rabbit is doing what she would be doing if she could escape too.
An omen even; but I haven’t decided if it’s a good omen or a bad one; not yet. It’s too intermittent.