I was there, but now
I am here:
here with the ghosts and photos
of girlfriends past;
here with a molting reindeer hide
draped over the dead uncle’s leather chair;
here in bed wearing knitted socks
and a woolen jumper
(or should I say ‘sweater’ because,
after all, I am here now),
rugged up against the Spring chill.
I am here
in an old woman’s house,
my sons
asleep in her bedroom,
asleep in her office,
their Lego bases
guarding filing cabinets
and broken antique furniture.
I am here in the fold-out bed,
temporarily alone
(having lost the toss
to a VW bus and the call of the wild)
in the ‘granny flat’
while granny sleeps with the old folks
in the home.
I am here
with ancient bluebells
crowding in as thick as weeds;
here drinking an old woman’s
nasty wine, knee-deep
in the carcasses of carpenter ants.
I am here with nothing for company
but an out-of-tune banjo
and several statues of Buddha;
here with the straw hat from Guatemala,
a boomerang or two,
and the tea-towel map of the London Underground.
I am here, but still arriving,
still unfurling into memories of here.
I want a book shop coffee.
I want to watch men throw fish.
I want to flatten a penny
and watch otters scamper across damp sand.
I want to eat the cinnamon rolls
and smoked salmon we found
on the reservation where
the bare-chested werewolves live,
and build a driftwood fort
right on the beach
amongst the clattering pebbles.
I want Vashon
and the moldy pink palace
(it’s not like anyone else ever goes there),
and I want the dead uncle’s water wheel
to stay in the stream,
and fuck the salmon!
They have better places to
go and die, don’t they?
And now
I am thinking about
the old woman –
all tattered skin and faded flavour –
and I wonder if she is dying,
and if she is,
would she rather be here?
I don’t mean here where I am
(although I suppose she would),
but here where we all are –
or would she prefer to leave here
and go
somewhere else?
We can’t know
and I’m not sure she knows much anymore,
so why even think about it?
Her memories are all at sea
while she struggles to scrape
against the flow,
dodging rocks and bears’ teeth,
seeking release.
Meanwhile
we plant trees
she can no longer pull out
when we leave,
and I take down her pictures,
rip out clumps of bluebells,
and spill coffee on the white carpet.
Wherever she is heading,
I have made it back here,
and I think this time
I may stay awhile.
