by Karen Phillips Curran

This morning I wanted the world to end, or at least to stop, to be put on hold….I awakened in my new quarters in Bermuda, the cottage of a friend of mine. I had never been inside. Its quiet. Soft. The sun streamed in through the sheers and bird song was the only “noise”. Just stop it all here, this is it, perfect. I’d made myself a hot, fresh, french press coffee in the delightful kitchen, and had snuggled back into bed under the, riot of colour, duvet. The room is spare, painted all in whites.
She dropped off her front door key to me the day before, just as she was on her way to the airport. It is an old fashioned skeleton key for an old fashioned “cottage” in St Davids, old Bermuda. The pastoral feel of the area is a delight. Twisting, steep roads find their way back and forth to the sea. Fields of freesia, casurina trees and oleander bushes speak to the wind. Meanwhile, Kiskadees screech and feral chickens stutter and cluck.

Its easy to get lost, and I did. As I stood in one place, endeavouring to regain my calm in the face of that,and decide which way to turn, the visiting RAF jet took off in front of me. The runway was a few yards down the hill, obscured by cliffs, a turn in the road and my desire to find my way. Its engines broke the day’s quiet and it roared unapologetically into the azure sky. It was as if my father had materialized before me. He had taken off from that same strip, many times, in an RCAF aircraft, the Argus, years ago. Moments later, too soon to have recovered my composure, a great, green grey, lumbering companion craft, lifted off as well, embedding my father’s ghost in my psyche.
I sighed, waited to see if more were to join the fray. But calm reigned. The planes disappeared into the blue. The day’s heat began to swell.
Finally a bus came, and took me away.