185: Once I Dreamed of Janus

I saw him outside the corner shop the other day. He sat cross-legged on the pavement, playing hauntingly on a kalimba. Singing in two voices. They followed me through the shop, sweeping under the bag of apples and brushing past the cabbages. On my way out I stopped and gave him one of the apples. He smiled.

The next time we meet, I buy him a chai latte with cinnamon and give him a woollen scarf. We sit on the wall outside the castle, overlooking the valley with its train station and criss-crossing roads and rushing people.

"They don't know the skill," he says, raising a hand. The kalimba is in his pocket. "The skill it takes to never slip off the edge. It's in the fingers. It's in the notes. It's in knowing each note like the muscles in your hands, and in using each one at the right time."

"When did you learn to play?" I ask.

"Before your grandparents' great-grandparents were even thought to exist."

"Is that a truth?"

"It's a note."

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Written by: Katrine Hjulstad

Instagram: @katrinehjulstad

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Publisher's note: All poetry published with Eudaemonia Records has been viewed and commented on by our editors. Ultimately, however, we believe that it is the writer's decision to accept or reject any suggestions made by the editors, and therefore take no responsibility for the final product.