Cultivating cobwebs

September has always been the real New Year.  The Jewish new year, the school new year.  However much I've always hated school, I loved papa sharpening our pencils with his penknife at the kitchen table and Lizzie buying me shoes from Shortland's that shone like fresh conkers for a week or two.

All the men I truly loved I realise, with age, that I met them all in September.

This is my personal equinox weekend when sands shift and stars align or Chance just dances it's unknown jig.  

Seven years to this day, Nico walked me home via the canal and kissed me beneath the dark windows of the Mill.

Six years to this day, Skinny Luc the estate agent opened the Mill door with the giant key and led us through the corridors of chaos that had been Jean Sabatier's life.  That morning I opened the dusty East facing windows above the canal and silently willed Nico to say yes he'd buy.

Five years to this day I threw my wedding flowers into the crowd of guests as we jumped out of that dusty window into the canal as Gab programmed Earth Wind and Fire's September on the speakers. 

Today today, I look at the webs creeping across Jean Thomas from the Cameroon, who sits on the windowsill and think that I ought to do something about them. 

By lunchtime Lizzie and I had removed the summer dust and let a new, sharp light in.