Moment in time

Moment in time

The house they were moving into was nothing out of the ordinary. In fact, some might say it was a very boring, dreary looking building and they would be right. Standing back looking at it from a distance, Rosie had no idea why the place had been left looking this way. As a female, she could see that it was crying out for the feminine touch, and the love of a good woman. The cold wind whipped around her legs, snatching up the fallen autumn leaves blowing them in all directions, pulling the thick piles into the air and gently swirling them all around. The trees looked bare and naked like sheep running through a dip. With their wild, shaggy coats of wool, strewn all over the floor.

Just for a moment, she had an urge to run through the carpet of leaves scattering them everywhere, just as a child would do, to pick them all up and throw them. Screaming with excitement, laughing hysterically at the fun of it all, jumping into them and burying herself. From somewhere, a dog joins in and barks and barks while it runs around in circles, chasing its tail. Chasing the children, that are now not one, but four. Their red faces are aglow with a radiant energy that is bursting at the seams. This game could go on forever and ever, and Rosie cannot help herself. Scooping up even bigger armfuls of the burnt oranges and yellows, mixed with the red and golden colours. She ran through the piles of leaves; throwing them in the air while chasing the children.

The game brings squeals of delight that build up to a noisy crescendo, and then, just as it reaches its heights they all begin to slow down. Rosie stops to catch her breath; her heart is racing at all the sudden exercise as she bends over with her hands on her knees to slow her breathing down. She is still grinning as she turns to see the mess they have had so much pleasure in making. The children are gone, the dog is no longer here, just the wind once more blowing coldly across her face. The tell-tale leaves are stuck to her mittens, and she pulls some more crunched up pieces off of her woollen hat. Remembering what it was that she came outside for, Rosie goes towards the garden shed to fetch the leaf- rake. Kicking through the piles as she walks, making her way through the wet, sodden grass that lies underneath.

The swing made of two thick ropes and a large plank for a seat begins to call to her. Hanging from the highest thick branch where it has cut into the bark over many a year. Just a little at first it begins to sway in the wind bending to the left and then the right it beckons, come and steady me, hold my ropes tightly until I stop moving. Looking at the shed, and glancing towards the swing Rosie changes direction. So this is where the children are, they see her and run towards the swing because there is only one. Rosie is bigger than the kids, her legs are longer, and she can run much faster. Beating them to it, she laughs loudly and grabbing both ropes she pushes her feet on the ground, squishing the leaves, kicking them away with her wellington boots every time she goes forward.

Higher and higher she goes, and the children watch her, waiting patiently for their turn, even the dog is sitting with them, guarding them all. He is their companion as well as best friend and playmate. Dragging her feet, Rosie brings the swing to a stop and gets off, determined to be distracted no more. Her warm seat is quickly taken, and the children take turns pushing each other and swinging. As she turns to watch them, they have already gone again, and the swing is once again blowing around in the wind, banging from side to side.

“Ah, here you are at last I have been waiting for you.” The shed door opens, and a man inside is gathering bits and pieces putting them inside a wheelbarrow. “You will find everything you need here, a decent rake, proper thick gardening gloves, and some sturdy bags or before you know it, the leaves will find themselves right back where they started.” With that, he gave a hearty laugh and walked towards the back of the dark shed.

Rosie looked all around; there were spades and shovels, a lawnmower, lots of pots and plenty of spiders and webs. This place could do with a good clean as well. Benches with tools, and lots more tools hanging on the wall. Metal hammers, wooden mallets, a saw, a hacksaw, pliers, pruning shears and many more things.

“Do you live nearby?” Rosie asked, but she didn’t get a reply. Reaching onto the bench, she picked up and turned on a large torch. Very sure that this shed did not look this big from the outside she walked forward. There was garden furniture with covers over it, and a large barbeque. Right at the very back, was a framed garden seat with a lovely floral pattern. Hanging behind that on the wall, was a donkey jacket and a thick scarf. Reaching up, Rosie unhooked the coat and found herself checking the label, she knew it would be there. This was Tom’s jacket, it said so, right inside. Then just for a moment, she couldn’t remember how she knew that.

At long last, Rosie started the job that she came to do and began in the far corner, raking up the leaves into a neat pile. She had a plan because you needed to have one with a job of this size. Opening a large garden bag, she put in a big handful of leaves, trying to stop the bag from blowing away. Keeping both feet firmly on it, she began pulling the pile towards her, using the rake and mostly, getting it inside the bag. As soon as it was full, she tied it up. After the first six bagfuls, it was time for a break, and a nice warm drink. The children looked sad at the other end of the garden; she was taking away one of their favourite games.

However, Rosie had uncovered something else they liked to play with. Hidden in the corner was their football. Picking it up and kicking it towards them once again they began their excited shrieking; this game was a firm favourite with the dog. “Come on Buster,” the tallest boy shouted out, giving the ball a kick high into the air, everyone chased after it. So there Tom was, working at the far end, the one with the nettles and the large compost heap. He was busy chopping logs with his big axe, splicing them up on top of an old tree trunk. It was his corner, and everyone just knew not to go anywhere near when he was busy.

One thing that Rosie had always wanted was a wraparound porch. A rickety place made of wood where she could sit outside on a warm summers day and watch the world go by at a dreamy pace. With fancy pieces of intricate roof trellis. Where the hanging baskets brimming with beautiful flowers would hang down, dripping with water as the sun slipped in the red evening sky, making its way to bed. In a place in her mind, she would sit in a rocker or lounge on the large swinging chair, just like the one in the shed.

With a dog at her feet and a cat curled up on her lap, this would be her place to escape. Wrapped up in the fantastic stories she loved to read, or sitting with her pencil and pad creating her own ones. The imagination was a wonderful thing, and a person had to get lost in it sometimes because there you could be just about anyone that you wanted to, just magic it all up, see and feel all those things you never had before. When Rosie looked all around her, she did not see broken boards, or rotten railings and posts, wood that was dying, or the drab green colours of slippery mould. Closing her eyes and shutting out the cold winds she could feel the warmth of a hot summers day, hear the buzzing of the bees and feel the flutter of the tiny butterfly wings all around her head.

She was gazing out and caught the beauty of the dragonflies as they darted in front of her eyes. The vision she had of the homely front porch was one of warmth and colours with the freshly painted walls giving a backdrop to it all, the entrance to her new home. Of course, she couldn’t have it all her own way. No, it had to be equally manly because her husband was going to balance it all out. He was going to help Tom build a bridge made of sturdy timber so they could walk from their garden and go directly over the small stream that shimmered brightly in the sun. On the other side of the bridge they would come out to the small bluebell wood, the children would love playing in there with Buster.

A summer-house and a tree-house were all on the horizon, plans for the future in their beautiful garden were all mapping themselves out in Rosie's head. Little dens where you could be anyone you wanted. From Tarzan swinging through the trees, hanging on while you leapt from one place to another, playing roles in life where you could look down, but no-one could see your fantasy. Pretending to be grown-ups, dressing up in your weird and wonderful clip-cloppy shoes, pushing prams, being the next greatest football star, or simply having tea parties with all your dolls. The garden was going to be a place to escape. The grey squirrels were already very busy running up and down, up and down gathering nuts and storing them in their small cubby holes inside the barren trees.

The banging of the porch door was interrupting Rosie's thoughts. Hugging herself from the cold, she went inside her new house. Stamping her feet quickly, she tried to get some warmth running through her veins once more. Swapping her wellingtons for nice warm slippers and her padded jacket for her favourite fluffed up jumper, she hung her hat and mittens up with her coat, and went into the kitchen. Earlier that morning, Rosie had laid a fire; she opened the door to the log burner and struck a match. Blackening, the lit paper quickly began burning, and the kindling wood took hold, the logs on the top would soon begin to glow red, and the warmth would fill the kitchen. In the evenings she liked to use the real open fire in the big hearth, just watching the flickering flames burning high in the chimney was enough to entrance her mind.

The aroma of the bread filled the place with mouthwatering smells, and Rosie took it out of the machine. There was a nice big potful of home-made vegetable soup to go with it; it just needed reheating, so she set about seeing to that as the cat began winding itself in and out of her legs. “Let me look at you Casper,” she said, scooping up her feline friend giving her a warm cuddle. The cat gave her a reward of loud purring and a wet nose, nuzzling into the side of her face; Casper began giving her kitty kisses, showing just how much affection she had for her.

“That will do, for now, I know what it is that you really want.” Rosie laughed, reaching for a can of fishy food and some creamy milk. Casper was walking all over the worktop purring even louder, patiently going backwards and forwards, before finally jumping down onto the floor to devour her lunch. She would predictably then go back for her afternoon nap, only this time, curled up in one of the two rocking chairs in front of the kitchen fire.

The door burst open, and the children ran in, taking their place up the table after carefully washing their hands first.

“Yum yum, this is lovely, thank you, Mummy,” each one would say in turn; slurping their hot soup and mopping it up with thick crusty warm bread. The warm glow on every one of their small faces filled her heart with joy. She was truly blessed; they were so healthy and happy, her life was complete. Her husband Dan was out at work; he had a workshop in the town where he spent his days making all sorts of furniture. Tables and chairs, dressers and beds, benches and ottomans. The very table they sat up now was one of his creations, a work of art, a true object of beauty. The long pine table with bevelled edges and the carved out hearts on the matching chairs was a design that she had thought of herself. Basing it, on an idea from a children’s fairy-tale.

Then they were gone. No sooner had they eaten, the place was empty once more. Rosie tipped washing up liquid into a bowl, far too much of it; she liked to do this because there was plenty over to blow lots of bubbles into the room. Casper loved to chase them around; it always woke him up, washing the pots and pans was the boring part, fetching her extra large bubble-blower from the windowsill, she scooped the foamy water at the top of the bowl and began slowly blowing. The biggest bubble she had ever blown was at least 10 inches across; this one was tiny in comparison. A circle of swirling colours of mauves and greens floated across the kitchen, the soapy suds hanging at the bottom weighing it down, quickly it burst open. Rosie laughed and made many more bubbles. “Come on Casper. Wakey, wakey,” she called.

At the mention of her name, the cat gave a lazy stretch. All four legs extended straight and narrow, and she arched her back, lazily opening one eye. Before she could shut it again, a bubble floated idly by, teasing her. Casper lifted her paw trying to pop it, it was a halfhearted effort, and when the next bubble came near her claws were out. This indulgence was as far as she went, no further exertion was forthcoming today.

“Oh Casper, you can be a spoilsport sometimes, and I hate to say it, not wanting to burst your bubble or anything, but dogs are much more fun!” Rosie laughed. Looking out of the window she could see Tom; he was no longer chopping wood, the axe was back in the shed. He was busy picking up where she had left off. Bagging up leaves, and he was managing it a lot faster than she did. The children were helping, not to be helpful of course, but to see what else they could find to play with, what was lurking in their garden?

In her mind, Rosie knew she would never quite finish the job, at least not today, for she was far too busy now with something else on her mind. First, she had a bit of baking to do, a nice pot roast that could slowly cook in the Aga stove this afternoon, together with a tasty apple pie that she would prepare now and bake later. Only this time, she would leave it in the fridge. Casper could be very naughty when she wanted.

Running up the stairs, Rosie made her way to the attic. Things had been left in there, but she had no idea what they were. All she did know, was they were patiently waiting for her to find them. This, was what Dan called a ‘proper attic’ with wooden stairs at the end of the top landing; you could walk straight up and into it. There were light switches and a solid wood floor. All sorts of things were stored here. The house once belonged to a dear old lady who died a spinster and donated the house and the contents to the local church. They put it on the open market intending to use the funds for good causes including repairing the church roof. The contents of the shed and the attic along with much of the old furniture, remained within the house for the new owners to do with as they saw fit.

Rosie was so excited she didn’t know where to start, but already she was wearing a tiny hat that was atop a hat stand, and she had the most beautiful shawl draped around her shoulders. Spinning herself around she admired the items, although they didn’t really match her scruffy jeans or baggy purple knitted sweater. The ceiling was covered with cobwebs and Rosie twirled them all around with the long-handled duster that she had taken from the corner. She felt like dancing, so that’s what she did, twirling around like a ballerina as she pinched the intricate webs that were no longer in use. They were as dry and dusty as everything else here. As if for them the attic was a quiet void, far too boring for a spider convention.

“Do not worry, I will bring life here,” Rosie called out; once again exploring the vast space. In front of her was an artists easel, covered over with a dust sheet. She pulled the cover off with great gusto. Staring back at her was a pair of piercing blue eyes, they were old, and the lady in the portrait was speaking to her, showing her the great expanse of knowledge buried deep in her soul. With soft wrinkles around her eyes and running down her cheeks and lines around her small thin lips, she had very interesting features. Her nose was dainty, and there was a hint of dimples in her smile. With wispy short grey hair framing her face, it had the smallest hint of soft curls. Sitting to one side on the top of her head, was the hat that Rosie was wearing. Pinned to the shawl was a ruby red brooch in the centre.

Rosie took the hat off, and lay it on the top right corner of the portrait, wrapping the shawl over the top. It was not her place to be using these items as she was, running around clearing out cobwebs in her scruffy clothes. Of course, the lady smiled at her, and why wouldn’t she?

“Would you like to come down and be a part of our house? I’m sure you would. Where will it suit you, maybe a garden view? Did you like to cook? I really don’t mind where I place you; I will leave the choice to you.” Rosie did a curtsey as if she was speaking with the Queen herself; there was something about being in this woman’s presence that called for respect and a little decorum. In fact, it was a little unsettling altogether, so without further Ado, Rosie picked up her new friend and hurried downstairs with her. After all, how could she possibly expect to carry out the attic tour while she was under watch this way?

So it was settled, the wall in the dining room to the left-hand side had a beautiful view of the garden. The autumn sun shone into the room and straight onto the portrait, lifting it out of itself. Surely a much better position to be in than the dusty old attic. As if to agree with her, the lady in the portrait had a much bigger smile than she did before, Rosie was sure of that. The hat stand and the dummy were the next items to be brought down into the house. Both of them had pride of place in the wide hallway. Rosie didn’t really know why, she couldn’t explain it, for it just felt right; that was plenty good enough reason.

And so it continued, for most of the afternoon. Old photographs adorned the dresser, together with photos of Rosie and her family. They were all smiling, and well suited it had to be said. Only the aroma of the delicious dinner shook Rosie awake from the work she was doing.

“Goodness, my apple pie!” she ran downstairs and took it out of the fridge. This time, tipping Casper out of the warm chair, urging her to go outside. Setting the table a little while later with the silver cutlery she had found in a box upstairs, Rosie called the children in. The poor mites would probably have frozen half to death if it weren’t for Tom and his warm bonfire. A short while later, Dan came home from work; this always caused lots more excitement as he brought back all odd cuttings of wood and the children loved nothing more than to sit building things with them every evening.

“Thank you, Daddy; we love you.” Dan loved to hear it day after day. Nowhere were there more contented children than these. One of them, Suzie her name was, was standing on top of a chair washing the dishes. Billy was drying them, and Catherine was putting the things away. The youngest child was only five, and he was well worn out after the day's escapades, so Jack was left alone. He was gently snoring, his small head head flopped over a comic on the table. Rosie gently placed a cushion underneath him instead.

Casper was back inside, laying on the table next to her young friend. By Jack’s feet, Buster the dog was dreaming and jerking his paw. He had worn himself out, it had to be said.

“You have to come and see this Dan, and this, and this.” Rosie was off again, she had ants in her pants her husband was sure of that. Whatever she did around the place was okay with him. Her energy burst out from within her; she was contagious to be around. He loved it all, everything she was doing, the portrait, photographs, hat stand; it was adding an extra depth to the house, the place was springing to life somehow.

That evening the family sat around in the large front room, all at long last starting to quieten down for the day. The children were in their pyjamas; normally they would be in bed by now but, it was half-term. Dan was reading them one of their favourite stories, and everything was peaceful. Young Jack had his head on Rosie's lap now he had fallen fast asleep, and the others weren’t far behind him. Buster had already gone up; he spent every night sleeping in the room with Jack, he was laying at the bottom of his bed.

Rosie cradled Jack in her arms and carried him up the stairs, where she gently tucked him into bed and kissed him on the forehead. Pulling the covers over him, she went to switch the light off. There was a painting on the wall of 'Goldilocks and the Three Bears;' it stopped Rosie in her tracks. She had never seen it before, it was stunning and painted in oils. How had it got there? Buster rolled onto his back kicking his back leg, if Rosie didn’t know better she would think he was having a tummy rub. Switching the light off and pulling the door ajar, she went back downstairs.

Or rather she meant to; as an afterthought she had a peek in the other bedrooms. There on the girl's bedroom wall was a glorious painting of 'Sleeping Beauty.' Once again the artwork was a stunning oil painting. Capturing the depths of the colours, across the whole spectrum of the rainbow. Rosie wasn’t shocked to see the next painting. In Billy’s room there was no mistaking 'Treasure Island and Captain Flint.' She could almost hear the sea rushing in and the waves crashing on the shoreline.

She wondered? Was there one for her and Dan at all? And if there was, what could it be? She had no idea but found herself almost running to go and have a look in their bedroom. Rosie burst out laughing, she had not been expecting to see anything ‘grown-up’, and she was not mistaken. For there on their wall was ‘Peter Pan and Tinkerbell’, it was very apt. Who wanted to grow up, nobody did really, did they? “Thank you; it’s perfect Miss Sullivan,” Rosie called out, after all, that was her name wasn’t it?

There were a few days left that Rosie wanted to make the most of, before she was back on her school run. It was another dry day, and once more the children were all wrapped up in warm hats, coats and gloves. All of them already running around like headless chickens, now the garden was a lot clearer than it was yesterday they were making a den. Whoops of delight and lots of laughing was the order of the day. Tom was helping them; he had piles of branches that were no good for burning on the fires. A den was rapidly taking shape.

Rosie resisted the urge, for the moment to go running out there building it as well, she wanted to clear out the large trunk in the attic, the really big one, and she couldn’t wait to go and open it. Today Casper was joining her; she was also intrigued to know what was in there. Of course, the cat was just going to sit proud and upright preening herself, gracing Rosie with her presence this morning was enough of a treat for her owner. What was going to be in here? Something told her, and it was just a feeling mind you, that it was special, more than that, really special.

Unlike yesterday, Rosie had made a bit of an effort today. Wearing her brightly coloured blouse and dungarees, she fared a bit better. With her dark curly hair tied up in a yellow flowery bow and her bright yellow shoes with flowers to match, she could almost be going to church on a Sunday. Well, not quite, but she felt dressed for adventure at least. The trunk was not going to disappoint her, where was her imagination going to travel to this morning? Placing her cup of coffee on the floor and sitting down on a patchwork quilt, Rosie began by opening the lid. The first thing she did was sneeze, as the dust flew up into the air around her.

There were some letters tied with a pale mauve satin bow at the top of the trunk addressed to a Miss Dorothy Sullivan. “Whoa,” Rosie exclaimed out loud. “I just knew your name was Sullivan, Dorothy huh? How would you like me to address you?” For a moment Rosie was just going to untie the letters and then she thought better of it, it wasn’t polite. Instead, she carefully placed them on the floor beside her. “It’s okay, I won’t spill my coffee on them.” Picking her cup up, to her surprise she found she had drunk it all already. “Really?”

Delving back into the trunk, Rosie pulled out a musical box. At the bottom was a small drawer. Opening the lid, she was greeted with the tune of Swan Lake. Inside the drawer was an ivory coloured pearl necklace with a set of matching earrings. The ruby red brooch from the portrait, and a cameo ring. It was all she could do not to try the jewellery on, because it was almost as if it was calling her to do so. In a way, Rosie felt like it belonged to her. Closing the lid, she placed the box beside her with the letters. These must have been Sunday best dresses, the frocks were folded neatly, plain with a little bit of lace. Underneath these were pairs of lace gloves, petticoats and linens; embroidered tablecloths and napkins with delicate flowers stitched into the corners. At the very bottom were glass bottles that would have been for perfume they had tasselled pumps. Rose picked up an antique silver compact complete with a mirror that was now black around the edges. The very last thing was wrapped up in cloth. Rosie undid it and found it to be a dressing-table set with a soft hairbrush and mirror.

Without having to ask, Rosie stood up and took it, placing it on her own dressing table. Everything else she placed back in the trunk just as she had found it. When she went back into her bedroom, she found it was all there. The lace doilies, musical box perfume bottles and the compact. Laying on her bedside locker was the pile of letters. Rosie had been permitted to read the letters and keep all of Dorothy Sullivan's belongings. Rosie never felt the need to open them.

So it went on, over the coming days there was not much left in the attic at all, everything was finding a place inside the home intermingled with the stuff that Rosie and her family had. Some of it, Rosie had laid out or put away. The rest just found its way where it needed to be. Pretty soon the attic was going to be an empty space. Were they making room for something special up here? Only time will tell. Sometimes things were a mystery; houses had many secrets.

Autumn turned into winter, and the snow began falling. Once more, the house and garden were brimming with fun and laughter, it was lived in, no longer a house, but a home. The small bridge was up, opening a whole new world of play for the whole family. The small woods was home to many wild animals; the rabbits often made their way into the garden. As did the little muntjac deer, foraging for food. It was a haven for the birds and squirrels because Rosie and the children left food out for them all year round.

“Come on, come on,” Rosie shouted, as she ran around the garden throwing snowballs at all of them, hiding behind the giant snowmen they had built. Dan and Tom had made a start now on the new tree-house. In time, it was going to be so much more than just a tree-house because they had so many trees. They could have walkways high above the ground, and ropes to climb down. Rosie couldn’t wait, she didn’t want her kids ever to grow up, because she didn’t want to, not really. Dan crept up behind her, playfully knocking her over into the deep snow and then he ran away, weekends were the best fun of all.

Christmas was the best yet, and it was full of surprises, not just the usual ones, but six extra-special ones. Rosie told Dan that she never wrapped them, and Dan told Rosie that he knew nothing about them. Both of them were fibbing. So each of them had a small stainless steel capsule that they had to bury, they must put the date on a piece of paper and write letters. This was the best game they ever played. ‘Time capsules.’

“I’ve seen this sort of thing at school,” Billy explained. “The idea is you bury things, and then in the future, someone will dig them up and read them.”

‘Christmas Day 2017.' My name is Rosie Adams; I am 37 next birthday, we moved here in October 2017. My husband is Dan; we have four children, Billy, Suzie, Catherine and Jack. Our dog is Buster and Casper is our cat. The lady who lived here before was called Dorothy Sullivan.

That just about covered it; Dan put the date on Jack’s, and Jack drew a little stick figure. The other children wrote theirs, and all six capsules were put inside a tin box and buried at the foot of the great Oak tree.

“I wonder who will find them in the future?” Dan laughed, it was a great idea. He knew Rosie was behind it all along.

“Great idea Dan,” Rosie laughed, her husband was such a tease sometimes. Winter turned into spring, and the garden was blooming. The easter egg hunt was a particular favourite of theirs. Rosie spent many hours hiding eggs all over the place; there was plenty of places to choose from. Spring blossomed into Summer, and Rosie stood back admiring everything just as she did the first day she ever saw the house. For her, it had always looked this way.

The porch was in full bloom the hanging baskets were truly stunning. The children were sitting on the swinging garden chair with glasses of long cool lemonade; it was too hot to run around today. Even Buster had gone inside in the cool shade out of the sun. Rosie was filling up the large paddling pool for them this afternoon, now wasn’t that going to be fun? It was the summer holidays, and they could pretend they were anywhere else in this world as they sat in it, feeling the real sea washing over their legs. Rosie was going to make a picnic.

Everything changed, and once again time took Rosie back to her real childhood. She waved goodbye to the family from the future, her family. Then the sky began to cloud over, thick and fast, but it wasn’t going to rain. The temperature dropped, and the wind began to pick up. Suddenly, it was very cold outside, chilly, the leaves were blowing around Rosie's feet. She knew she would have to get home soon because her Mum didn’t like her outside when it started to get dark.

But there was something about this house that always made her stop; she didn’t know what it was. Maybe her vivid imagination was playing tricks on her. Kicking the leaves, she stood staring at the porch, through the porch door she could see Miss Sullivan walking around. Rosie thought she must be a lonely old lady mooching about in that house all by herself, so Rosie wrote her letters and left them in the letter-box by her front gate. Every one was neatly hand-written to Miss Dorothy Sullivan. Just to make the old lady feel like she had someone, that she was part of a family. Dropping the last letter in the box, Rosie began to run home. She was only seven years old, and her family were moving away tomorrow. One day she wanted to come back, she liked it here, always had and always will.

Underneath the old Oak tree, there were already six empty capsules. Rosie has buried them there on one of her many visits. Tom will dig them up when the time is right, prompted by his wife. Thirty years from now the four children will often have a silent playmate joining in their fun. An invisible friend that never wanted to grow up, her boundless energy surrounding them all. Slipping from one moment in time to another, beginning all over again, over and over again. Rosie was the wife and mother who never lost the magic of childhood. Moments in time allowed her to be who she wanted to be, whenever she wanted.

One day in the future another family would live in the house, and Rosie was sure they would find the capsules and feel the spirits of not only Miss Dorothy Sullivan, but the whole of Rosie's family too. In fact, she had already seen the young man running around her garden, playing, it was just that nobody else knew he was there. For nobody else could slip in and out of moments in time.

©Trisha J. Kelly

A Moment in Time - Featured in RAC Magazine