The Geckos
By Kern Windwraith
Do you remember the geckos? Dry slithery skin, delicate touch and release of sticky gecko toes on the palm of your hand? Cool, scaly ectothermic skin beneath your fingertips? Do you remember the gecko that lived behind the seascape print above the sofa, slipping out from the waves, snapping its tongue at spiders and flies? Do you remember the clutch of gecko eggs buried in the garden, pebbly blue-white calcium carbonate shells, delicate yet improbably robust? Do you remember our meticulous reburial of those eggs, the gentle re-consigning to the soil of their fragile promise? The long wait for life to emerge? The morning we found the shells cracked open, occupants absconded in the night? I miss them. The geckos. And you.
Kern Windwraith
The second daughter of an incorrigible liar and an undiscovered genius, Kern Windwraith grew up in Canada, Australia, Iran, Ghana, and Venezuela. Her itinerant childhood gave her a passion for verse and for stories told and untold. She wrote her first book of poetry at age five and wonders sometimes if it is still floating about in the wide, wild world searching for itsaudience. Her poetry has appeared in The Literary Hatchet and Unlost Journal. Currently, she lives by the Coquitlam River in British Columbia with her saucy little Jack Russell and multiple overflowing bookcases.
Photo credit: Michaela Kliková
Apricot Press 