Nuuk and Maarit – Episode Three

Cymbals

“Where are you?” Words escaping bursting bubbles of confusion.

Brass trumpets accompanied by the percussion of sheet metal hi-hats and splash, a calliope of rattle-trap crowing and thin-tin bells ringing. Indeed it was time to wake up. Maarit’s alarm clock turning gears and dancing across the smooth currents of wood in her bed-side table. Fatigued from her journey. Having a rough time waking from the cool blanket wrappings of deep blue sea.

“Good morning,” words to herself, reaching an arm out to calm down the new day’s reminder. The blow from the side of her hand nearly toppled the glass there filled with fresh water. Early morning sun just prying open the slats of her blinds. Needing the flick of her desk-lamp switch to brighten the room. Illuminating.

And from the block shelves and shadow boxes a little girls toys frozen in their dance. A toy horse, tail braided balancing on its back legs, kicking at the sky. Books of adventure one laying on its side, pages read over and over again. Picture of her grandmother holding Maarit tight. Several dolls long forgotten, living in the margins of yesterday’s fancy. Sailboat, sail puffed out proud from a child’s manifest. Droplets of water following the line of the keel.

“Good morning Maa…,” this time Maarit’s mother opening the bedroom door to greet her daughter….trying to make sense of the puddle.

“Now Maarit that’s the last…,” tone a warning caught in her throat as she considered the contents of the glass nearly filled to the brim. An odd chill to the room and scent of high adventure. Breaking the surface of the puddle with the flattened palm of her hand. Ice-cold.

“But it wasn’t me…”

“Salt,” as she placed a wet finger-tip to her lips. “Where did you say he is from?”

“I’ve seen it,” were Maarit’s words as she acknowledged her mother.

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