Feathers in the wind

So we went our separate ways and lived our lives the way we lived our lives, and here I am, twenty plus years on, still thinking of him, still dreaming. And it all comes back to haunt me even more when I find that a friend we both knew is now living close to me. A link. A link in that chain which goes back to a time I sometimes wish I could forget. A link, a coincidence, a chance?

If it was the house on the hill by the park, I'd have been about seven, or maybe eight. The memory is from Christmastime and dark. Dark in my room, and dark on the outer edges of my vision, but in front of me, spotlit by streetlamp, a triangle of snow floating down forcefully towards the tarmac on the other side of the window. The snow lying thickly on top of the hedge is black to the sides, but glowing amber under tungsten in front of me. Very early morning? Or the dead of night? Not sure. I sense that it was night and that perhaps I should not have been awake; stealing a moment in time for myself. Perhaps that's why something so uneventful has remained with me for so long. It wasn't Christmas Eve, though there is a tangible sense of excitement in the air. Perhaps it was the first day of the school holiday, perhaps we were due to visit my aunt in the morning, perhaps the snow was excitement enough.

Snow again. Edinburgh this time. At first there is only the bitter snark of wind stinging my ears and that painful numbness in the toes as unsuitably suede ankle boots do battle with leftover sludge that is refreezing with every step. The snow, when it comes, is not soft and pretty but grey, and hits at my cheeks with mean little stabs. And then we were inside a flat with a five bar electric heater impotently glowing in the icy air. I'm struggling to remember who was there; four or five of us anyway. Coffee was made - hot and too strong if truth be known but I remember we all clamoured to say how much we liked it that way because it seemed the coolest thing to do. For three years I drank coffee I hated just because it seemed the coolest thing to do until eventually I forgot that I preferred a weaker blend and could no longer stomach it unless it was thick, black and tarry and preferably accompanied by too many Marlboroughs; another taste acquired against the odds.

More lights, only this time from a car. Motorway lamps seem to hover in the air above us, the skein of roads unravelling as we forge our way through the darkness and count the spots of light on our way. Lights on the other side of the water dazzle with reflections so spectacular that you forget they hide an industrial scar on the landscape. Shop windows glowing in wet pavement puddles, advertising warmth and wonder within, cities making pretty in the dark, almost begging you to go and have fun. Reno rising. Christmas trees, large, small, real, fake, all twinkling in the half light, offering promises, promising offerings, tantalising glimpses of the fairy life.

Friends

Westminster chimes ting out. The battery must be as tired as the paintwork surrounding the supposedly stained glass of the front door. My coat catches on slightly webby brickwork as I lean against the wall, waiting for my friend to answer the door. Did I hear footsteps? Or maybe not. Perhaps she has left already. Maybe, she has forgotten that we'd arranged to meet this morning. I can see a shadow moving, only it's retreating, getting further away from me. Why won't she answer the door? There's a slam round the back and quick steps then wheels and pedals and chains whirr and all I can see is her bag as it swings round the corner and she makes good her escape.

Oh my god that hurts. I can feel my shoulders sagging, and I start to cry. A creak reveals her father at the door. He looks confused, but I can suddenly see things very clearly indeed. I'm not wanted anymore.

I pick up my bicycle. There's no point trying to catch her. Apart from the fact that my bike used to belong to my mother, has no gears and sports a big fat wide plastic paddle for a seat and a shopping basket on the front, while hers is a racer with fancy handles and five gears; a boys' bike with a bar that you need to negotiate with a kind of swaggering kick before you can sit on the tiny little leather perch; and ignoring the fact that I'm thin and weedy and not built for powerful bursts of stamina such as it would take to gain some ground, what would I say? "Why don't you like me? Who will be my friend now? Please like me!" No. Instead I drag my two wheels out from under the neatly trimmed hedge, and cycle slowly to school, a warm summer wind getting into my eyes so that I blame that for the tears making their melancholy way down my nose and cheeks. I'm not crying over her. I'm not. I'm not.

More air in the world

As I sit here, taking up space, it occurs to me that when a person dies, when they're gone and buried or cremated, the air molecules must rush in to fill the void. Does that make the air thinner? Or does the fact that there's one less person breathing in, and out, somehow thicken our soupy atmosphere? Or, like so many things, does it all balance and out and actually, when someone dies, it makes no difference at all? I wonder.

Dreams

I kissed my boy last night. He made my lips tingle, and his arms were protecting me from pain, cold, fear, hurt. I wish I hadn't had that dream. It has woken a memory, re-stabbed a wound. Broken my heart all over again. I hurt in places that I've kept secret from myself for so long that I'd almost managed to forget. And now I remember again. I know now that my arm will go round his waist and my hand come to rest against his hipbone, and that as we lean into the wind together his arm goes round my back and his hand will settle on my shoulder. I can even smell the wool of his coat and see the shine in his eye that tells me he feels the same. Oh tantalising dream you kill me with your hints and suggestions and today I'm supposed to carry on and buy socks and clean toilets and be mum.

Ants. Roundabouts.

I watch the ants at the end of our driveway. It's like watching a screensaver; endless movement, rolling patterns, ever changing and yet somehow always the same. Humans must look similar, from above - lots of seemingly pointless scurrying around. I wonder if the ants talk with each other more than we do? Or are they all blindly following rules communicated down from a higher power, heads down, don't make eye contact, lock your car when you approach red traffic lights, keep your thoughts to yourself and for fuck's sake HURRY UP! Yes, I was sitting at a roundabout, waiting my turn and cursing the thimble-minded slurry-for-brains person supposedly in charge of the yellow Fiat ahead of me. It was then I noticed the movements of the cars; the stop, start, keep on going, round and round, everyone channelled motion that was so ant-like. And as I sat cursing, a cyclist headed the wrong way on the pavement; an ant that's smelled food in a different direction. Hope it wasn't a trap.

Think Advent Calendar

There's half a memory, and it keeps trying to resurface. Was it a book that I had as a child? Or a film I saw? Or something I came up with all by myself? Not sure.

Night fell a while ago, and everyone but me seems to be indoors, cosied up, cocooned against the darkness. Curtain gaps reveal tantalising glimmers of light, blanketing from public view nearly all that goes on within. And yet, someone here hasn't pulled their blind, drawn their curtain, shut out the out. I can see in. Not everything, just glimpses.

I'm on a train; fast moving capsule carrying me home, swishing me by all these other lives. I'm too quick to see much: lampshade, telly-flicker, shadow on a wall; dinner on the table, dishes stacked to dry, light goes out, baby bath. Who are these people? What are they thinking? Are they sad?

The street is lined with trees; cherry trees I think. In spring they have pink blossom, just now bare branches silhouette against the clear moonlit backdrop. There's no pavement to walk on, so I'm aiming for the middle of the road. Again, I'm drawn to the windows, shining their secrets down onto the street for me to hold close. Someone is laughing; it's a party. I can hear music and the tell tale clink of hired glassware. Their neighbour, an old man hunches in his chair, leaning towards his television. The News. No dish. I bet he's muttering under his breath about the inconvenient bursts of hilarity from next door.

Something about this grabs me. He's aware of his neighbours. They are oblivious to him. They are all unaware that I'm here, observing, just for a moment, this fragment of their lives.

I go home. And draw the curtains.

Fleeting Meetings

I'm heading home in my car. I feel cosy and protected from the world in my little cocoon of metal and plastic. Tunes are playing, fingers tapping on the steering wheel, the sun glinting against the black metallic paint and things are good. The light ahead is red, so I slow down and pull up alongside a bus. Glancing up, I catch the eye of a woman. I smile. She smiles back. I smile again, wider. She laughs. I laugh. The lights change and I drive straight ahead while the bus turns right and we never see each other again.

Six months ago, that was. I quite often find myself wondering who she was and where she was going. She was dressed in black and had those light blonde curls that suggest she was really grey but hiding it well. Older. Not old though. Smartly dressed, or what my mother would call "well turned out". At first I thought she'd come back from a funeral, but unless it was someone she was glad to be rid of, she seemed far too, jolly, for such things. I wonder if she ever thinks of me?