Legacy is the daffodils in the garden breaching the frosted soil too early in a resplendent display of light that will soon diminish in the grips of a gentle, early spring frost
As if the sun had spilled over and out of its containment and let a few drops of its buttery glow grace the ground and greedily consumed by a gleaming devil
Legacy is the hardened sugar-lemon mixture that skates in neat figures along the churning sea of black marble countertops, left by a phantom and cleared by a shadow
As if the first apparition were a phase in the cycles of the moon
There .. and then .. not there
Legacy is an inch of liquor slinking and sinking down the drain so that the velvety wine beneath can be enjoyed for others
The first wine not expertly monitored by your knowing hands
The same motions and syphoning and tender care carried out by a stranger to the wine’s shape and feeling
Legacy is the phrases that still dance on our tongues and wing their way, in a non-sensical fashion, to another and clash in mid-air as it meets another phrase of the same set
No interpreter on earth could understand the importance that now clings to these precious words, only the select few who have heard all of your idiosyncrasies and could recognise each jumble of words by the vibrations and commotion that they cause with the air
Legacy is the bright daffodils, the crystalised sugar, the thumb of brandy and the many phrases you left behind
thank you.
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