Like it's your birthday.

Was it really in 1991 as it says on this certificate, at the dying edge of a winter, when the snow covered the city streets with a late surprise? In a city unused to snow at any time?     

“When were you born?”

“Why are you asking me? I was too young to remember … you were there, you remember.”

“You were there too, besides …. maybe I’m too old to remember.”

“Oh come on, you’re not that old.”

“Thank you.”

 It wasn’t true though, I felt old. Asking the question made me feel older, like it was important to straighten things out before it was too late. 

Who was it who said ‘he who is isn’t busy being born is busy dying’? 

Suddenly, I couldn’t even remember that. 

Then I remembered, Bob. Mr Dylan. 

And, with one memory tumbling into place, a chain of others fell like dominoes, one after the next until there were hundreds lying on the table in front of me.

Perchance to Paint.

It began with church music, yet there was no church.

Choral voices, Latin, and an organ.

And although there was no sign or creed or sacrament, a feeling of exhalation swept over her. The notes followed the demands of the players unseen hands as if bidden by angels above.

And suddenly it stopped. Silence settled over the place where the church would have been if there had been one.

A place that was empty, devoid of form and substance.

Just a grey light.

Then yellow, blinding and a little frightening.

Then blue.

A peaceful, serene, comforting blue.

And then a road.

A cart trundled along the road.

Only the sound of the wheels and the hooves of the horses that pulled it.

And bird song.

Then darkness and more silence.

The soft sound of breathing.

A sigh.

One eye opened, taking in the light of the new day.