by Finegan, KT
*
I sat up, panting for breath, in the cold, dark air of my childhood bedroom, and it took me a moment to realise I was safe. None of it was real. No-one was standing on me. I was in bed, not in a darkened cave. Slowly, my breathing returned to normal. Sweat had rolled down my neck; my damp hair icy in the pre-dawn chill.
I sat up quickly, then forced myself out of bed with a shudder. Stumbling about in the dark, not really sure where I was. It was another nightmare. The same one I’d had for the last few nights. It had been such an unsettling time. Since my father, who I hadn’t seen for over twenty years, had called to ask for my help.
Newgrange. A place I had only recently heard of. An ancient stone chamber in Ireland, built as a temple to the winter sun, and one that my father seemed to think was in danger of some kind. And here we were, a week or so before the winter solstice celebration, and I was having nightmares about it.
In the predawn haze of a Scottish winter, I felt for my thick, fleecy dressing gown, rammed my feet into sheepskin slippers, and then pulled a tartan, woollen blanket around my shoulders, before heading downstairs to the relative warmth of the kitchen stove.
I used my sleeve to open up the still-warm metal handle and threw in some firelighters, thin twigs for kindling, and a couple of logs. Closing the glass door again quickly, I knew it would catch light and soon warm the old cottage. Within a few minutes, I had made some tea and sat huddled against the fireplace.
Flames crackled, logs spat and hissed, and silent shadows danced around the room. Outside, the winter storm had relaxed slightly. Thick snow and high winds had been my only visitors for days, and I was finding the prolonged isolation unsettling.
Sitting in my late gran’s cottage – left to me as her only living relative – I felt her all around me. Almost like a breath somewhere near my ear. I sensed her moving close as if to comfort me. I sat back against the cushions, closed my eyes, and surrendered towards sleep. It was the space where I felt closest to all those I had lost.
About The Author
KT Finegan lives in her home city of Glasgow where she writes, and offers workshops and intuitive coaching. Please visit www.ktfinegan.com for further information.