Little Houses
"Mother," said Embla, when they had crossed the valley and ascended, "why are our houses so small?"
"First, child," said Alfdis, "they are not 'our' houses. They are yours. I am not one who lives in a house. But you must be."
Embla picked at her wool sweater and sneezed. "This is so strange," she said. "And how am I to fit? An ant wouldn't fit in those houses."
Her mother's bosom heaved beneath her shining armor. "They will seem larger. When you go back down."
"But I don't want to," said Embla. "I want to go with you."
The wind was rising as it swept across the slope. Their long hair lashed the heavens. The golden-booted feet of Alfdis rose above the snow. Embla clutched at her mother's flapping robes.
"You will forget me," Alfdis said. Her voice as she rose began to sound like the wind. "I will never forget you. Glory be. But you, you are blessed. In little houses you will live and learn to be content. Although it breaks my heart."
And then she was alone. Her name was Embla. And she had a husband. And they had a fireplace. And the fireplace needed wood. And then there would be a baby. And the baby would need many things, especially a mother of her own.
She went back down. And so it all began.
18 November 2022
Texas Jim
Reynisdrangar, Iceland
www.granitecoast.ca