The Golden Thread


She slows her stride and stops to listen, flip, flap, flip, flap, and sees the unexpected. Small squares of paper flip, and flap in the wind, pegged to the golden thread.  They are sheltered by her verandah, the thread running at an odd angle, surely they would be in the way if you were to walk through there.  All the same, they flip and flap, threatening to leave the thread. She concentrates on the pieces of paper, she sees each one, one at a time, and then all of them all at once.  Some of the images move as she sees them, revealing more to her, and some are still, no matter how long she looks at them.

They are embellished in places, some appear to have metallic decorative paper stuck on them, conjuring the image of them being painstakingly crafted and pondered over, just one more piece of leaf here, and a brush of paint there.  She wants to touch them, but dare not to, in case they aren’t truly there, or they vanish as she reaches for them.   As she casts her gaze down the thread she sees more and more, in fact she can’t see the end.  She turns her head in the other direction and sees the golden thread with pieces of paper pegged to it, flip flapping all the way to the tree line. 

Tears fill her eyes, she blinks, breathes in and closes her eyes, a few beats later she breathes out and opens them.  She can’t hear the flip, flapping anymore, and the thread with the little pieces of paper and pegs are gone from her sight.  She smiles.