a gift.

A. Kinniburch, is perfectly etched into the beautiful spirit level that sits upon its dusty handmade case with dovetail ending.  A.K is bevelled in between two faint drawn guidelines and the date 1917.  On the front in a classic font are also the initials  A.K.  Hand painted in a dim gold colour with a ghost of red paint behind each letter.  She doesn’t know what kind of wood the box is made of but as she does with most things old and new, she raises it to her nose to smell.

This spirit level is a small, heavy beauty of a thing almost ocean liner shaped at the ends and a perfect bubble of balanced peace sits at its centre. Trapped but at home in a fine tube of glass. She often lays the tool across her chest to watch the swim of the bubble as she breathes and mostly to check her spirit. Another gift from him.

It seems he has trawled the world to find her favourite things. He’s extremely accomplished at this. He listens to her speak and catches pearls. He files them under her name, remembers, listens, seeks and surprises her with his catch.

His gifts are like the inside of a hidden closet but this is how she is.

She is made of wood and velvet and alabaster and rulers and old rocks and cicada wings and spirit levels and sadness and happiness as well.  She wears her dust like a sleek coat of knowing and he knows her.

He pulls his fingers across the surface of her, writing words and drawing trails from her legs to her chest and over her shoulders to her back. He knows her. A gift.

t.s.

2014.excerpt from an attempt to start a long story….

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