the heart of lady sterling.
A relic of lady sterling oversees this room as I sit shoulder to shoulder with the man I call my own.
Stealing moments is what you do when you have busy lives and fancy jobs and little boys that hardly stop for breath in fervent spells of chatter. So I sit, arm linked lazily to his. Happy to have nowhere quite-yet to be.
I gaze at the portable moon with her armor of twinkling stars and I breathe her in—the light of a time gone by.
I imagine the laughter that once echoed below her in the now-leveled building. I imagine the gentle tinkling of her crystals, the easy sway of her jewels, as big noises of the city boomed outside the bricks and mortar that vowed to keep her forever-protected. I inhale the vestiges of her home—its travelers, its visitors, its workers, its musicians, the adults who will die with the memory of what stood in that empty lot so long ago.
Lady sterling has fallen, but her heart survives; and if you listen closely over the clatter of silverware and the ringing of voices you can hear her calling, calling, for her secret histories.
—this post was grown on the gram.