The teller woken

The full moon, it must be the illumination stirred me from the sleep of a story thought complete!

Storyteller, I did not know my restlessness would lead me here. I am afraid, unsure and frankly I'm just warn out from the doing. I came and read again the stories we have woven here, and they did soothe me. How is it I forget?

Is it your living that is worn gal? Are you measuring yourself with that yard stick again, the one that wears the EVERY other ones' life? Ah, Sally with the roving names ... you have come to the right place of course. It is a time of quicksand ... and you were needing the comfort of a Lullabye de Muse. It is here, always here. No need to hesitate. In between that zipper of here and there impatient is often in the lurk. No matter. Come to be with me and tell me why you fret, or better know that there is no fret too small to share.

And, that thing about 'forgetting' ... that is your most valuable of treasures dear one. It is in the forgetting that you make room for your now, your now that is to be tomorrow. What is it worries you Sally Round?

I have made, we have made my dear Sam and me a home that is small. The tiny wheeled home built to create a haven is 'problematic' in this whirl ... this time of Saturn and Neptune testing the reality of right and proper. We have ...

Pause there now, my Sal. Take breath before you lose the sweet nectar of the story. You will need a breath to think your way through and out the other end.

(The storyteller reached across the space between the two and conned, a look toward the round-one's hair.)

Tis your braid. It has become unraveled darlin'. Not a thing to be fretting 'bout, now. Let me see now. Where have I set the comb. Come ... sit close.

(Sal edged nearer, sitting at the bed's edge she felt the warm sheets of the Storyteller's wool bed and saw the well-used comb at the bed-side.)