My Bubbles of Thought

I am so happy here, my dear friend, this chapter will be of my freedom. I only wish that you were here to see it.

I walk along a street listening to music, powerful, soft sort of music. It draws me in along with my imagination. I consider the thought of dancing, here in the street in front of cars and passersby. Dancing to music that only I can hear. A moment of non-conformity and self-expression. I smile to myself.

Oh autumn, even your dreary days can be so beautiful.

Arms engulf, enclose, and sometimes after this squeeze, giving the right amount of pressure appropriate for the given occasion. This intertwines the two bodies. This may be two which have never embraced one another before or two that know their way around one another well. Warmth arises from somewhere central, spreading across the two causing muscles to relax and shoulder blades to fall back into their natural position. With this any tenseness combusts along with the worries and stresses they carry. Oxytocin trickles through both eliciting the release of a soft sigh of gratefulness.

“I were walkin’ along a street an’ this guy was walkin’ on the path that’s about to meet mine. An’ I look at him an’ I can see he must only be a few years older than me, an’ he’s wearing this smart navy suit an’ got blonde hair with blue eyes an’ all. He starts to speed up to get ahead of me, so I do too. Suddenly we’re both competing in some fast walking race apart from it doesn’t feel like it’s about how fast we can walk. I’ve only got short legs and he weren’t tall but it wer’ easy enough for him to get ahead of me. So there he is all young, smart and good looking, cutting corners an’ crossing busy roads whilst barely checking to see if it wer’ safe. An’ there’s me, small, post-teens, not knowing what to do with me life, rushing so I won’t be late to my appointment. Round the next corner, I see a woman with a boy waiting on traffic lights to cross this busy road.  I think I’ll join ‘em ‘cause if they’ve bin waiting it won’t be long before I getta cross an’ I won’t have ta wait for the traffic lights up the road. Finally I think I’m the one whose cutting time’s corners but he doesn’t turn to cross the road with us. He continues up the pavement an’ stops at the bus stop, pulls out a cig. It’s then I realise how red and irritated the skin on his face is an’ that he’s not that perfect after all. We’re just two different people trying to make it along our own, separate paths.”

It started with the birds disappearing. No one knew where they went. Only that one morning the low coo of the wood pigeon was never heard, nor the cluck of the chicken or the chirp of the sparrow. Then went the fish, dolphins, whales and sharks included, next where the flies, cats and farm animals. Until eventually it was just us. The Curse we called it. One person said it was a punishment from God and soon that became the unanimous decision. It really was as though God had plucked away each of the species from earth except the humans.

Forty years ago it did.

A red hippopotamus is dancing in the sea. Leaping, smiling, as happy as can be.

The child captures all his love, sleeping in his arms. Six months ago he wouldn’t have believed it possible. Now he looks down at the tiny, restful face and his love is transferred.

This action concludes this story but begins the next.

The distance between is travelled on aeroplane.

Rains pelts down, battering them as they face one another. The harsh weather adds to the climax. They stare at one another, breathing heavily as the adrenaline rush slows ever so slightly due to their stillness. Both faces hold a grimace expression due to rain, exhaustion and the thought of what they must do. The ground below has been churned up into thick, cakey mud. They are the last ones left but only one can bring victory to their clan. The expectations of both of them are high, yet neither wants to kill the other creating a standstill between them. However, this is a battle, there is little choice. She holds her sword up to the sky and cries out as she charges towards him.

Breaths are wheezes, sore and difficult. My body is already slipping from my grasp. Sight, hearing are not what they used to be. Everything is an effort as I attempt to hold on. I consider it for a moment, what it would mean. To have the pain lifted, maybe comfort and peace would then exist. Our child is grown, grief would fall upon them but not surprise. Grandchildren were never born and I don’t expect they will be now. In that aspect there would be no loss. But it’s her, on the arm chair, head far back leaving her mouth open as she catches her rest. Such peace in her face as she sleeps, I envy it but I can picture it wiped from her face as she would kneel distraught by my side. She’d be cared for, looked after, but without companion. Without the woman she had shared everything with. She’d feel abandoned. She’d only have the occasional visitor left to fuss over and drive the nurses crazy with parenting advice. A smile cracks between my thin, dry lips. A taste of salt hits them as tears trickle down from my eyes. I know it. I must be selfish.

We hold each other’s hands and we stand alone.

They stand at the toe of the lake, hair wiping their faces, long strands of yellow grass tickle their legs; the wind is cold and bitter, suiting the grey sky that looms above. They do not notice this though. Eyes fixed on the lake in concentration, determined.

He walks along the paths, attempting to find the right street. The written address neatly folded in one hand and a heavy leather suitcase, coloured a light blue, in the other. The blue cloth of his shoulder cape matches the suitcase, the softness within his clothing fashion seems coordinated with the flowery cottage look of the houses that he passes. The buildings look as though they’d be better suited to the rural country than inner city. He walks with a steady, continuous pace, allowing him time to observe his environment in detail but not to the point that would make him too late upon his arrival.  The next street to his right: Sycamore Tree Avenue, the one after: Sycamore Tree Lane “Aha”. He turns and begins to walk down passing terrace houses that stand with more grandeur than the sweet, homely cottages that fill the surrounding streets. He finds the right house five doors down. He takes a short moment to pause and gain a first impression; a red brick house with large windows outlined in black, a colour continuously featured on the door, curtains and metal railings. It does not seem a happy home, however he feels there is something he could do about that. He ascents the stairs and knocks a plain brass door knocker. A slightly large, balding man opens the door in such a fashion that implied he finds visitors more of a bother than a pleasant surprise. “Yes?” the older man spits, “I am the new nanny” the younger man clarifies, seeming more like a young boy in comparison to the older man though not through attitude; confidence, clarity and manners have always a been speciality of his. “You?!”, “Yes” the nanny answers with a knowing that the concise monosyllable would stop the older man in his tracks; he had experienced this many times.