who: Iain Cynwrig & Gertrude Borg what: Moving Day for Gertrude where: From Gertrude's to Iain's when: 30, June, 2012
Perhaps it was a sign when all the stars aligned to have her walk into the shop that day to find a book which pages she once memorized so well she could recite a line or chapter from memory when asked; to have her fall so soundly asleep against the shop owners side that when she awoke she discovered pieces of the broken puzzle once called a heart had been found and pressed into place once more to make her whole and womanly again. The take away cup of tea was held between two hands while a small round bottom sat on top of a cement stoop - eyes watching the road that early morning for the signs of the miracle working gentleman, teeth biting onto tender flesh of a lower lip while rats protested their entrapment in a cage just beyond the door.
Gertrude had woken very early that morning, early enough that she was able to dismantle the bed she had slept on and drag the frame and mattress to the hall to wait for the truck to take it and all the other belongings she hadn't sold off online to the new house. The bed would be sold as well, but she couldn't sell it before that day - it did serve her well over this final week. Taking a sip of the hot tea in hand, her legs fidgeted a little, heels bouncing up from the pavement - legs pressed together so no one else outside or across the street caught a glimpse up the short black skirt she donned for moving day.