The Meerkats’ Book on Money. Ilinda Markov

page breaks away and flies down landing between us. I shiver, it’s as if it’s a sign of her presence, as if my mother is with us at that moment and I can’t breathe with the overwhelming sensation.

      My father comes back to the sofa, comes back to me carrying the book ceremonially, like a box of ashes perhaps, or a box of subtle wisdom possessing the power to transform lives. He sits next to me, still aloof as if contacting other dimensions, and offers the book to me. My hands unclench only to grasp it so hard I hope it doesn’t hurt the pages full of wisdom.

      “Let’s the healing begin,” my father whispers ceremonially and we both turn to the corner where like a sarcophagus traveled across time my mother’s piano is ready to spill ancient secrets. “Here is your ticket, Elizabeth. First you go to Ursula.”

      “But Ursula hasn’t got money!”