Moments

The tree

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The tree stood in an old flowerpot wrapped in red tissue. Tina sprayed it with bleach against allergens then with hairspray to stop needledrop. She wrapped it with tinsel and wove lights around the branches. Finally the crowning glory: the fairy from the shoebox was placed ceremoniously on top. A minute later she sneezed, opened her eyes, shook her head and flew out of the window. Tina stared, open-mouthed. In the kitchen Rocky was barking.

First published on http://www.paragraphplanet.com 22 December 2015

How did our paths meet?

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So how did our paths meet?

Did I track you through the needle-green forest?

Perhaps.

Or did you follow my footprints along the dried earth

between the long grasses

across the river

in the dark?

 

I do not know or don’t remember.

But the lines of flame that come to an arrowhead

that meet and stop and flare and entwine

the lines of flame point to a destiny

where we have now arrived.

Handcuffs, lost happiness and burns on the carpet

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I wake up cold, no blankets, and my heart’s a tip.

You’ve moved out,

leaving handcuffs,

lost happiness

and burns on the carpet.

 

You booked in to my heart for a short weekend visit

but then put up posters

and turned radiators high.

You said not to worry,

lots of places to go and people to see,

but then you dragged in an evergreen aluminium tree

and put a selfie from Venice on the top.

 

So what is there left?

Your fingerprints and footprints on the gentle pink paintwork,

your footprints and fingerprints on the remnants of rugs.

 

I look around

and call around

but my heart’s chambers echo.

You’ve moved out,

leaving handcuffs,

lost happiness

and burns on the carpet.

Rocks

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“Your head’s full of rocks,” Davy’s mother shouted after him as he hurtled down the track on his bicycle, dust clouding up behind him. She shook her head.

Round the corner, Davy stopped and got off his bike. He walked down the path towards the river, the velvet bag in his hand. When Grandad had given him the bag, Davy had found Grandad’s football and soldier medals inside. But now the medals were safe in Davy’s desk drawer and the river pebbles were in the bag.

“They might be rubbish to her but to me they’re treasure,” he said to himself. He sat on the stony beach and, one by one, took the pebbles out of the bag. He held them in his hand and looked at them one last time. Then, wiping tears from his face with river water, he walked back towards his bicycle, towards home.

Jan is home on a Saturday night

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Jan is home on a Saturday night. Again.

The doorbell rings. He had thought it might.

Open? Or not to open?

The audience he imagines and his hard-beating heart tell him to open.

So he does.

Life changes for the pale-blue better.

Or

Jan is home on a Saturday night. Again.

The doorbell rings. He had thought it might.

Open? Or not to open?

The audience he imagines and his hard-beating heart tell him to open.

But he doesn’t. He waits.

The doorbell rings again. He had thought it might.

Open? Or not to open?

Half the audience he imagines say yes, the others no. His heart beats hard.

The doorbell does not ring again.

Life changes for the pale-blue.

Or

Jan is home on a Saturday night. Again.

The doorbell rings. He had thought it might.

Open? Or not to open?

The audience he imagines and his hard-beating heart tell him to open.

But his head cautions him to wait.

To wait again.

And wonder why he had waited before. His heart beats.

The doorbell rings again. He had known it would.

Open? Or not to open?

Now the audience he imagines is silent, confused, though his heart still beats hard.

The audience he imagines leans forward, willing him to do one thing or another.

So he does what they want.

Life changes.

The first time

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You said let’s give each other presents on Sunday. It’s our one-month anniversary.

You gave me cufflinks in a velvet box, I gave you a meat pie in a greasy bag and then had to pretend it was a joke and your real present was at home and I was saving it for our 33-day anniversary because that was my lucky number.

That was the second time I lied to you but I only did it for good reasons. I knew I was not good enough for you no matter what you said.

The third time I lied to you was when I said it was fine you were leaving and that you had to do what was best for you and everything would be ok. Then I didn’t have another chance to lie to you.