Mrs Archibald's photograph came into my possession long after she had left this life and shortly after the photo's slow passage from Canada. She probably never imagined that a trace of her would end up here. Far, far from where her life was lived.
I see Mrs Archibald wearing a thick skirt, layers and folds of fabric dragging and swishing around as she walked. A heavy key always concealed in a pocket deep amongst that fabric. I'm not sure what door the key unlocked. When she could steal a few moments to herself she would escape to the garden with a book. She loved to read, but all to often instead her mind would wander. Inevitably to wind up in the warm glow of distant memories of Brazil, of Physalis and that one wonderful day.
I see Mrs Archibald wearing a thick skirt, layers and folds of fabric dragging and swishing around as she walked. A heavy key always concealed in a pocket deep amongst that fabric. I'm not sure what door the key unlocked. When she could steal a few moments to herself she would escape to the garden with a book. She loved to read, but all to often instead her mind would wander. Inevitably to wind up in the warm glow of distant memories of Brazil, of Physalis and that one wonderful day.