Think Speak Run

A girl stands on a bridge.

Below her speeds the dual carriageway, running fast into the future she doesn’t want to meet. A few metres to her right it rushes in the opposite direction, hurtling towards the past she can’t forget.

She is stuck. Rooted to the pavement by gravity and uncertainty. She feels heavy, tired. Invisible forces, at play in her mind, joust and tussle.

A memory flits across the darkness. A beautiful vase, bluey-green.

A knock, a gasp, a dense thud. Between the knock and the gasp, the sound of an undulating wooden coaster on a table. But the certainty that the vase will fall. Brief hope. Maybe just a crack? Now trying to remember the perfection from moments before. ‘Distressed’ is the pattern, apparently. How apt. The myriad lines and pathways intersecting on the once-smooth glaze look like veins and capillaries. They look purposeful. Where is the heart towards which they travel, from which they run? After the glue, the whole vase looks purposeful. As if it was always meant to be broken. As if it was hiding its beauty before. But it does look different.

A child sits in the grass piercing daisy stems with a dirty fingernail. The limpness is allowed, to create the chain. She is absorbed and happy, out of sight in the ‘wilderness’. A call breaks the calm. Her name. Must she respond? Here she is happy. Here she is safe. Here, she is in charge. The daisy stems don’t even seem to mind. She knows they want to be chosen, each showing its tight gold orb and pure canoe-shaped petals, some tinged with pink. But she does not want to be chosen. The air’s change alerts her. He’s close by. If she lies down now he won’t see her, as unaware as a blundering bull intent on reaching the trough. With any luck, he’ll get distracted by something else – the climbing tree, perhaps – and give up on hunting her. He’s no good at hunting. Only at the kill.

She counts the daisy faces in her palm: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, ni-

She’s ripped to her feet, staggering at the suddenness. Wondering how he found her. He’s careless. He’s not a tracker. She whimpers for her daisy chain. His grip tightens. She won’t be able to find it again. The sun is still warm. The air has returned to calm, closing around the space she’d inhabited. The beetles carry on crawling in the grass. They never stopped. Birds don’t deviate on their missions to catch flies mid-swoop. Somewhere a dog barks. Just once. No animal, no person, no presence seems concerned.

And later, he wants to play, and he’s her best friend again.

Sometimes it hurts. When there’s no pain she still cries. Sucks her thumb. Seeks solace. Twists the hanky up her little nose.

Decades later. Same vase. Same location. Is the damage seen or unseen? She can still hear the sound.

The child beats within her, little bird. Little wings. I’ll protect you.

Exuberance. Noise. Carefully crafted drawings, the colours deliberately chosen. She is proud of her boys. The girl stands aloof. Pushing away, pushing away. She wants to say, “I’m proud of you. I love you.” Between them, years arc like bridges. But she’s not allowed to cross. Words and looks have thatched together, weaving an impenetrable strand. It should be strength but it’s as fine as gossamer. A chord of discord. Let me love you.

Time beats nearer. She feels it in her once-empty womb. The fullness below her ribs amazes her. Again? What will you look like, little wonder? Will you let me love you? I can protect you now.

She can’t count the rain. It needs so many drops. And the snow. Even God – can He count the flakes? Each one different. But recognisable as snow. Melting coldly on cheeks and stuck-out tongues. Falling in a swirl of silence. Covering everything. Even chimney pots. The spit and hiss on flame. So she can’t count the times. They are beyond number. But recognisable, all the same.

Then there was genius. A too-common word. An antique typewriter that was really just unwanted. Her husband bought it for her. That was love. He of the technology and cleverness, accommodating her need to be slow, to breathe. To remember. And to remember the beauty, too. Like the cracked glazed vase. Really just an earthenware pot.

The heat stifles. Actually. And not for an imagined moment, induced by poetic writing. But all the time. She sits with a fan blowing dust at her face, the child moving around inside her, equally unable to rest. Uncomfortable. That’s the feeling in her body. That’s the feeling in her mind. Trying to talk about the past. Not sure how far back to go. Memories coming in a mish-mash. Haphazard. Dashed. Hurried. Untidy. Broken. Like the pot.