Maypole

It is a strange tradition to her. Foreign and illogical. But it fascinates her nonetheless. Around a pole children dance and run, excited and smiling widely as adults watch. Music comes from some inexact point, possible from a number of street musicians.

It is warmer than she imagines late spring, especially on the pathway just near the beach.

The company of dancers is predominantly composed of small children, but she spots a few boys and girls who look almost close to her own age. They must crouch very low for the smallest children to lift their ribbons of the youths’ heads, though the younger ones already stand on tiptoes to rival their companions.

Things pass in such a manner for some time as the ribbons become shorter and shorter, until they must be tied to the end of new ribbons to continue.

The pole, which had been as bare and black as a frosted glass lamppost on a city street, is now a curious structure of metal concealed in dozens of colourful shimmering ribbons.

There are whispers of good fortune, blessings on the maypole dance, but most children see little more than a game. She recognizes the bliss of coming summer on their faces and turns her face toward the light. The maypole is still there, behind her eyelids, a pillar of rainbow colours, a forever winding tower.

Art by Sarah Vafidis

Text by Lucie MacAulay