A WISH FOR ALICE

 

I stood in a strange village

Or rather a village

Where I was a stranger

Stood in front of a cottage

In need of a lick of paint

It was the home of my aunt

An aunt, not unknown

But not spoken of

Except in hushed whispers

Because of a love

The love that dares not speak its name

In a different time

A less understanding time

She had lived her twilight years

In a nursing home

Frail of body but sharp of mind

She had long out lived

All her family and others

Who had shunned her

“Something to be said for a deviant life style”

My father would have said

And now she was no more

But she had left me her cottage

Aunt Alice, my godmother

So I stand on the threshold

Key in hand which I put in the lock

On opening the door, I enter

Although dusty and stale

The house bears all the marks

Of a person loved

So she found happiness then!

I move from room to room

Looking for Alice

Feeling like a burglar

But as I search

I feel less and less like a stranger

Familiar faces in the photos

My mother and other aunts

Older than they should have been

They did not shun her totally then

Finally, I reach the kitchen

I unbolt the back door

And pulled it hard

It opened reluctantly

To reveal the garden

Where the photos were taken

It was clearly once well cared for

But no longer,

Shrubs and trees

Have broken the bonds of cultivation

To create a wilderness

Through knee high grass

I followed the path

Un trod for many summers

Past remnants of the old garden

Glimpses of ornamental masonry

A birdbath, a sun dial

The vague outline of a bench

At the bottom of the garden

Rotting In one corner

An ivy clad shed stood

In the other Barely visible at first

Hidden amidst the foliage

Of nettles and tangled brambles

I see on closer inspection

A wishing well

First to appear was the roof

Cloaked in a cascade of ivy

In its eaves silken web’s

Fine spun like lace

Hold prisoner drops of dew

Which glint in the morning sun

I can see, as I get closer

The crumbling masonry

And the flag stones at its base

Fractured by tree roots

To one side Lies the wooden bucket

Rotting in the grass

Its metal bands rust brown

I thrust my hand deep in my pocket

Taking out a coin

And turned it slowly in my fingers

Before tossing it into the well

And I made my wish.

Then after a moment I turned

Then paused when a thought crossed my mind

When Alice stood on this very spot

In the dappled sunlight

Of her cottage garden

What did she wish for?