Kate Murdoch Author

Another day pretending to be busy. Carving hours, making them clean, not bleeding into each other. Paused external life has made me dormant, as if the fire flickering out, connecting with others’ flames has gone.

Time folds into itself. My mother leaves a text message ­–What would you like for your birthday?– and I’m startled by a lack of desire for any object or experience, the dimming urge to speak to friends. I’ve been crouched at the starting line, legs taut and aching for too long and am now stretched on the ground, gaze fixed on a sky where even the clouds have stilled.

But decelerated time has not stopped – yielding tight buds of blossom, my children’s limbs stretching like taffy, my own body’s cells shifting and renewing, making me a year older. Outside the kitchen stands a garden pot. I had thrust calla bulbs deep into the…