Small Fictions

September being my birth month
always elicits memories of my father.

Several years ago
a neighbor delivered a piece of
mail incorrectly delivered to his box.

One thing led to another.
It turned out that Carl Meyer was from Long Island.
He remembered my father and his brothers and
several of my cousins.

It was a heart stopping moment.
My father died in 1965.

At the time I wrote: "Camelot"
A small fiction created to
integrate my life stages.


CAMELOT

The courier arrives with a scroll--a message of some importance. He bangs on the etched glass door.

His Lordship opens the door slowly.

“A message for M’ Lady,” the courier extends the invitation to His Lordship who in turn hands it to the lady standing just behind him.

“It’s an invitation to a ball, James. How wonderful!”

“Who sent it?” James asks.

“The Lewis clan. It’s to be held at Camelot. It will be a feast like the days of old when romance and fairy tales reigned supreme.”

“You’ve come from home,” the tiny figure in the doorway of the castle with its stucco walls and locked gates observes. “You’ve come a great distance, had a long journey.”

“A matter of days,” the courier responds.

“And do you remember the old king, John the First?” the lady asks. “He was my father. He lived in the days before the world crashed.” She rewinds the invitation and carefully slips the ribbon over the cylinder.

“And you were Princess Pat, the fairest in all the land,” the courier says. “You were the child dressed in velvet and finest silk always with lace collar and cuff... a crown of curls on your head.” The old man smiles at the reminiscence and bows courteously. “Who could forget the little princess?”

His Lordship scowls.

“I could,” the woman whispers. “I don’t remember who I am. I forget that I was ever a princess.”

The courier remains silent.

She looks past him to the sea “I don’t know how to get there.” She glances at her husband.

“It’s not far, the courier says. “I could get you a map.”

She shakes her head sadly.

“I’ll take you there,” he says in a pique of passion. “Anytime,” he gestures grandly to his steed in the driveway.

She steps through the doorway into the light. “I wouldn’t know the names of the guests. So many are gone.” She frowns in concentration.

“I will introduce you,” he says. “Surely you will remember your royal friends at first sight.”

“I have nothing to wear--just these rags, summer fare: shorts and tee shirts.”

“A cloak! I have a great red cloak made of the finest wool. It is in my bag.”

“And shoes?” she asks.

He looks downcast. “Ah! I have leather thongs--fine slippers they will make.”

She nods and turns to study her reflection in the glass of the door; pats her hair. “‘Tis gray,” she says.

“It has golden highlights,” he offers.

She moves into a patch of sunlight. “It was lovely there. I can remember the music and the lights. I loved to dance.” She hums, and dances a few steps. “The king was so beloved. And remember the parades.”

A dark cloud passes overhead. Everything shadows. The clock strikes the hour.

She shivers. Drops the invitation. His Lordship puts his arm around her. “Come Patricia. You’ll catch a chill.”

He turns to the courier. “Thank you so much for delivering the invitation. Please extend our regrets. We can’t get there from here.”


Little princesses become old women leafing through knitting patterns
looking for heirloom worthy patterns.

I seldom choose an old fashioned pattern from the 40's or 50's
Little girls wearing delicate cardigans and Patten leather shoes
induce nostalgia but not desire.

I knit for contemporary princesses,
align my choices to the new era.