does anybody ever read this blog?

Forty one days before the Germans went into Poland my family went to Margate, and Father passed so briefly through my life. Back home in East Ham, the summer was close and muggy. There was a sugar bakery near our house and the fumes had gotten unbearable, seeping and reeking with clammy sweetness sticking to the very air we breathed. There were times when you felt you were inhaling syrup and it set your throat on fire, so you can imagine how we welcomed our escape to the coast. In her quieter moments, Mother would soothe me with talk of how ‘Father’s skin had a glow smooth as them gold canes stacked by the wall’ as we walked along by the bakers. ‘Beautiful Nettie, he was. Just beautiful.’ And that was all she’d ever say, lifting her eyes to the clouds and making me feel impolite to probe any further. And so I never did. Somehow this brought me relief, as well as a funny kind of consolation.

Margate’s sea air was meant to blow away the heat, but looking back I wonder if it fanned a different kind of fire for me. One that never did go out. When I asked Mother why my skin was darker than most or why Father had gone away or what it meant when the girls on the corner sneered ‘my golly’ and pulled at my cardi for no good reason I could see, Mother told me that ‘all kinds of misfortune could befall a man with his background’ and that it wasn’t for me ‘to be querying the mysteries of God’s creation.’ Sometimes she said X and sometimes she said Y but basically she said that that was that, that I should be grateful for small mercies, and that he wasn’t coming back. Was gone for good, in fact. He could be dead for all she knew (sign of the cross). And how was she to know that there was someone watching him so closely and so ready to tell me all that they knew, even though I’d never asked them for it?

*
Isle of Wight, Ramsgate, Southend, Cliftonville, Shoeburyness – we went to all the greats, the fun-filled resorts and pleasure beaches of the day. Though we were far from what you might call flush, our merry outings were a matter of custom to the family and we put savings aside all year round, like alms intended for the Church collection box.

That summer of 1939 I plunged my toes into the cool yellow sand of Margate and watched hoof-prints loom and fade at the shoreline as my cousins rode on donkeys down the bay. We were staying in the Granville Lodgings near the beach and Mother and I shared a room overlooking nothing but a white brick wall that plunged to a damp court-yard below. I did so cherish the open skies and long horizons of the coast when they were laid out before me. And I loved to swim in those dear dear English waters. I slept in my bathing costume some nights and each morning, before the others woke, I slipped from my bed and stole barefoot down the stairs. I ran across the Prom to the pool on the foreshore, inhaling great gulps of the day’s bright beginning, just to make sure I got enough of that clean air into my lungs to see me right til next time, just like Mother said I should.

Some mornings groups of fishermen would be on the front, fixing the nets they had draped on the railings and I wanted to ask if they had ever seen mermaids (though I must admit I never did). I longed to swim in the open sea but I was alone then, and I couldn’t bear the thought of seaweed grasping at my ankles or fish-hooks stabbing through my skin, never mind disappearing down the quicksand in Walpole Bay, so I stuck to the saltwater pool in the Lido. If truth be told, when you ducked and squinted your eyes at the water level you could imagine you were floating on the deep blue sea anyway, paddling and tumbling and basking just like the seals and porpoises in the Great Atlantic Ocean.

As a family we were accustomed to the water – seafarers and stevedores for generations, we’d been. Even Auntie Ellen who didn’t like to get her hair wet had won First Prize in the 1929 swim season and Uncle Jack was said never to be happier than when tied to a mast in high seas. Later, their son John would swim across the Channel smothered in goose fat while we all waited on the docks at Calais to cheer him over the finish line. At the waterside Auntie Annie whispered lewd jokes about how his woollen trunks’d probably shrunk in the sea and we stared right through our shame as he heaved himself onto the jetty. I say ‘we,’ as if we were united, but really that was only the half of it. We were and we weren’t, but there was so much I didn’t know. There was so much I would never really understand.

When I arrived at the Lido on that Sunday, July 24th 1939, the only other people at the pool were an old man in an old bathing suit and the Lifeguard on a high-chair at the side who had the look of Laurence Olivier about him: same amorous eyes and dimpled chin. I liked the way he smiled and nodded me good morning. In the cubicle at the poolside, I chucked off my clothes and sandles, not even bothering to hang them on the hook, and then dived straight in to the water and started practising front-crawl. No warm-up that morning since it was what you might call bracing, but I loved it all the same. I remember I could do five strokes without taking a breath and then when I did it was only from the side of my mouth and my face went straight back down in the water and my arms propelled me onwards as if I were a torpedo. I was hoping to compete next season, though I hadn’t said as much to anyone.

Up and down, up and down the lengths of the pool I went. I’d done 16 already – nearly a quarter of a mile – before I noticed a small group of boys had gathered at the waterside to stare. The Lifeguard was crouching down and beckoning me to the side. The boys were in a huddle, looking my way, exchanging words and glances. The Lifeguard seemed very aggravated, and blew his whistle til his face grew stern.
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to get out miss,’ his cheeks were red and his mouth had become awkward. The muscles of his jaw were pulsating. ‘These boys need the pool for training miss. Out you get.’ He stood up. ‘Come on now.’
‘What, now? Straight away?’ I asked.
‘Yes. Now. Out.’
Those boys didn’t look like they were in training, I must say. They looked podgy with puppy fat and grey about the gills to me. But the Lifeguard’s manner had taken such a turn that I was startled from the pool. The boy with the blunt cut hair had stepped forward to glare at me with a look that seemed so full of hatred that I didn’t much want to hang around.

I hauled myself up the aluminium steps at the side of the pool and dressed quickly, slinging the damp towel across my shoulder and tasting the salt upon my lips. As I walked past one of the boys gave me a hard little kick and a sneering smile – surreptitious like, so’s not to be noticed. He muttered something that I couldn’t catch beneath his breath. I winced at the kick and his pals let out a quiet cheer, so I didn’t bother rub the welt that I could feel was rising on my shin. A crisp breeze skimmed across my forehead and I looked down at my unbuckled sandals, nonplussed by what it was that made me feel such shame. In all honesty, I sensed the fire rising up inside and wanted so to hit them in the face for cutting short my swim and kicking me just like a bleedin’ mule would kick a dog. But instead I was just frightened, as if there were a whole crowd of glares and not these boys’ strange eyes boring into me. I knew right there and then that I had to cut my losses, beat a swift retreat and make my way back on these legs and feet that didn’t seem like mine no more.

*

When I arrived at the Granville Lodgings, breakfast had already started and I could hear the clink of spoons on china and Uncle Frank’s Capstan Navy laugh as I reached the bottom step. I felt so out of sorts, like I’d been set adrift. Mother was in the window with Aunt Kate. They waved me in ‘before you catch your death,’ and stood up to fuss and cluck and scrub me with the towel. Auntie Ellen was in curlers and Rose was in the corner trying to make sense of her ruffles with the Premier Laundwell iron while everyone else ate bread and jam and bacon and hoped no one’d notice if they supped their tea from saucers.
‘You mind you get clear of all that salt young lady before you enter church this morning,’ commanded Aunt Kate.
‘Never mind church our Nettie,’ said Uncle Frank grabbing me round the shoulder, ‘we’re all washing for posterity this morning aren’t we, Annie, eh?!’
‘That’s right,’ Auntie Annie grinned, ‘it ain’t a holiday without snaps! The Sunbeam man’ll be over here before long my girl. Now you get yourself upstairs and ready for the snap of the century. I want everyone outside and looking nice by 10 o’clock sharp.’ And so Mother shoved me gently up the stairs.

Auntie Annie and Uncle Frank always insisted on doing photos, whenever we went away. Even now I’ve got a battered case full of printed post cards, negatives, receipts and faded albums filled with the faces of people I don’t even know. When I look back at the snapshots of that July morning, it makes me glad to see that some of us spared time to crack a smile and put aside all thoughts of what we had waiting for us around that corner. They put me in the second row to hide my un-pressed slacks and I must say my shoulders do look rather broad in those puffy short white sleeves. Everyone seems so full of sunshine and so laid back, though I myself can see the trouble on my face. I often think of them as the very last of our clear moments before Father passed by me and the war came through and took it all away: Uncle Jack’s legs, Frank’s life, Ellen’s joy and the little ones until they returned, orphaned by the Blitz.

The man from the Sunbeam Studio turned up prompt so’s to catch everyone in their Sunday best – except that the boys Stan and Richie were still running around in trunks and pumps like little ballerinas and Cynthia was refusing to put on her frock. We were 22 women that day, as opposed to just 9 of the men. The older boys were already away, three months in to their military training – Royal Navy – what with war being in the offing and them wishing they could follow in their fathers’ footsteps. Those of ours that hadn’t gone were only spared on the basis of being dockers, a ‘reserved occupation’ essential to the war effort. And then there was Bernard who wasn’t able-bodied anyway. You can see him in the back row next to Frank and Jack, looking all wan and weedy.

*

After the photographs, I went upstairs, told to change into a skirt and take off that daft turban because what did I think I looked like, Lady Muck, or some third rate starlet from the movies. We weren’t in America, you know, Mother and Aunt Kate said before they left the Sunbeam Man behind and got on their way to church. I was in our bedroom rushing to fix up my hair when there was a knock upon the bedroom door.
‘Miss Cates?’
‘Yes?’
‘Call for Mrs Cates. Says its urgent.’
‘Right. Coming!’
I put my brush down, thrilled at the thought of a telephone call. I leapt up and out of the door, almost knocking down the messenger as I flew down the stairs two at a time to the hallway. We still didn’t have a phone at home.

Mrs Johnson was standing by the dresser, holding the receiver in one hand and a bundle of washing beneath the other arm. I smiled, and pointlessly ran the flats of my hands over my fresh skirt, and took the phone from her.
‘Yes? … Hello?’ I said, hoping I would sound just like Bette Davis in Jezebel. Mrs Johnson looked puzzled and walked away down the hall.
‘Olive Cates?’ the man said.
‘I’m afraid she’s not here. This is Miss Cates. Miss Nettie Cates.’
‘Right, well,’ he cleared his throat, ‘you don’t know me I’m afraid love, but I have some information that’ll see you right.’ The man spoke with an accent that came from home, make no mistake. ‘You can tell your mother that she will find one Harold McKay to the West of the pier this afternoon if she goes looking. He’ll be there with a group. Be sure to go and find him. He’ll be getting his deserts.’
‘I say, now look here … ‘
The line burred in my ear and the caller had gone. I replaced the receiver carefully and slowly returned to my room.

I set the photo back down on my mothers mantelpiece, I positioned it askkued now, it appeared out of place in-between the neatly arranged crystal vase and the marble clock. As I counted the bodies inside the photo again, I pressed down on the glass leaving my fingerprints behind.

Five people; my mum, my dad, my twin sister Kimberly, my brother Jonathan and me. The Campbell family . I allowed my fingers to traced the red oak frame , it’s still shiny, almost brand new. This wasn’t the sort of photo that had been proudly displayed in the hall in like the other family photos or passed around at family get together’s , BBQs, Sunday roast or christening.

This particular photo had its place on the mantel in the far corner , virtually hidden behind other objects. This was the type of photo to only be glanced at in passing, never touched or spoken about. If I think about it, I can honestly say this is the one and only full family photo that had ever been taken with the all five of the Campbell’s in it.

As I fix my eyes on my twin sister Kimberly, I wondered if the number would have stayed at five if it hadn’t been for ‘that’ winters evening. September 1993, the leaves had just fallen from the trees, the short wet English summer was well and truly over. Autumn had give its wink of approval to winter and the real cold began to settle over Hammersmith.

The Campbell family shouldn’t have ventured out into central London that day. Mum made Kimberly and me both wear thick itchy woollen scarves, Kimberly complained her scarf was scratching her nose and chin.

Jonathan couldn’t find his, he didn’t want to go out anyway, he wanted to stay in and complete the final level of his computer game Galactic Aliens Invader. Mum wasn’t bothered if we didn’t go out this one weekend. She was exhausted from a full week of working and looking after us but dad wanted to go , it was Campbell tradition that every first Saturday of the month was the family day out, winter or no winter.

We all secretly thought dad loved this family time the most. A day at the arcades in Piccadilly Circus or a family movie followed by popcorn and ice cream. I always choose the big green and yellow gobstoppers from the sweet counter over chocolate ice-cream, I loved the way they left my hands and tongue stained in a sweet multi-coloured goo.

We set out at 3pm a little later then we usually do. The last tickets at the cinema to see the Lion King had been sold to another family of five; the only other option was the Ghost Busters movie that Jonathan was dying to see but Kimberly and I at the age of seven were too young to see the certificate of an over twelve movie.

Mum had said it was far too cold for ice cream so dad was running out of ideas. I remember that the wind had been blowing quite fiercely that day, I saw an old man chase a five pound note down the street, he caught it but not before bumping into a lamppost .

The wind rushed past my cheeks and whistled in my ears , people wrapped their coats around them like shields and hurried to where they were going. It was that same wind that blew the five of us into the photo shop that day.

Dad was like a small kid, excited with his discovery, a small shop about seven doors down for the cinema in the same complex next to the bowling alley, I’d never noticed it before. The windows displaying large portraits of people in Victorian and Tudor clothing. The photos had been taken In sepia and black and white, some with hair lines and light burns through them for effect.

Mum explained to Kimberly, Jonathan and I that we were all going to dress up like we were from the American civil war period. I said the outfits looked silly. Kimberly said in a mater of fact way that this is what people wore in the olden days but I don’t think she really knew.

There was so many styles to choose from, I choose a peach silk dress with a pale satin sash. The matching hat had a ridiculous feather. It was so big it just flopped to the side, Kimberly choose a similar style in blue, dad and Jonathan were allowed to hold fake pistols, Kimberly and I tried.

to convince Jonathan to swap his pistol gun with our umbrellas. They were made out of cloth and didn’t even open.

Mum had the nicest dress of all , layers of lace and silk fabric with extra padding underneath. It was so big an assistant from the shop had to help her into some sort of cage and corset before the dress was fitted over it.

The photographer arranged us with mum in the middle and me and Kimberly on either side of her. I was hot and uncomfortable.

The photographer told us not to smile to make the photo look authentic.

A few tourists and couples busied themselves trying on clothes and choosing their theme. The five of us posed for a few more photos before the photographer called “that’s a wrap.” Kimberly and I got to choose which photo would be printed and framed before running off to the changing rooms.

mum yank the dress over my arms while tutting and telling me to hold my arms up straight. It was Kimberly’s turn to have a hot head now. I bent down and crawled under the rack of dresses to find her, she wasn’t there, I went back to where we had been sitting to get our photos taken; she wasn’t there either. Mum and dad started looking for Kimberly too. We looked near the props section. Maybe Kimberly had gone to take a closer look at the plastic pistols , she wasn’t there nor was she in any of the nine changing rooms either.

I think I threw up and passed out while looking for her. I remember dad carrying me to the car and my trainers being soaked in something acidic, from the back seat I could hear mum talking to the police in hysterics. I covered my ears, I knew her head was spinning because mine was too.

The police later informed us that a paedophile had been praying on children in the area. Kimberly was gone, we never found her . Dad and mum put up’ missing child’ poster all around Hammersmith and Chelsea. The neighbours all chipped in but nothing came of that.

As the weeks turned into months there was no new information. Months blurred into years. When I was old enough to ride the bus on my own, on several occasions after school I would visit the photo shop where Kimberly disappeared. The shop was under new management but the shop assistant knew why I was there.

I would check under the tables next to the hats. I really don’t know what I was hoping to find. All I could imagine was Kimberly huddled somewhere, frightened and scared, pulling at her itchy woollen scarf

.

As I matured into a teenage and Jonathan left for Bournemouth university the arguments between mum and dad became more frequent.

We all knew my mother blamed my father for making us go out on such a windy day, my dad blamed my mum for not keeping an eye on Kimberly by the time I moved out four years later they hardly spoke at all.

Its been twenty years since Kimberly went missing. I straightened the photo and kissed my mum on the cheek and thanked her as she entered the living room with my birthday cake, five plates and twenty seven red candles. All four of us took our place on the sofa . Mum pressed the timer on the camera, she carefully cut five slices, one for me, one for dad, one for herself and Jonathan and the last slice is always set next to an empty chair for Kimberly just in case she is found and comes home one day.

I set the photo back down on my mothers mantelpiece, I positioned it askkued now, it appeared out of place in-between the neatly arranged crystal vase and the marble clock. As I counted the bodies inside the photo again, I pressed down on the glass leaving my fingerprints behind.

Five people; my mum, my dad, my twin sister Kimberly, my brother Jonathan and me. The Campbell family . I allowed my fingers to traced the red oak frame , it’s still shiny, almost brand new. This wasn’t the sort of photo that had been proudly displayed in the hall in like the other family photos or passed around at family get together’s , BBQs, Sunday roast or christening.

This particular photo had its place on the mantel in the far corner , virtually hidden behind other objects. This was the type of photo to only be glanced at in passing, never touched or spoken about. If I think about it, I can honestly say this is the one and only full family photo that had ever been taken with the all five of the Campbell’s in it.

As I fix my eyes on my twin sister Kimberly, I wondered if the number would have stayed at five if it hadn’t been for ‘that’ winters evening. September 1993, the leaves had just fallen from the trees, the short wet English summer was well and truly over. Autumn had give its wink of approval to winter and the real cold began to settle over Hammersmith.

The Campbell family shouldn’t have ventured out into central London that day. Mum made Kimberly and me both wear thick itchy woollen scarves, Kimberly complained her scarf was scratching her nose and chin.

Jonathan couldn’t find his, he didn’t want to go out anyway, he wanted to stay in and complete the final level of his computer game Galactic Aliens Invader. Mum wasn’t bothered if we didn’t go out this one weekend. She was exhausted from a full week of working and looking after us but dad wanted to go , it was Campbell tradition that every first Saturday of the month was the family day out, winter or no winter.

We all secretly thought dad loved this family time the most. A day at the arcades in Piccadilly Circus or a family movie followed by popcorn and ice cream. I always choose the big green and yellow gobstoppers from the sweet counter over chocolate ice-cream, I loved the way they left my hands and tongue stained in a sweet multi-coloured goo.

We set out at 3pm a little later then we usually do. The last tickets at the cinema to see the Lion King had been sold to another family of five; the only other option was the Ghost Busters movie that Jonathan was dying to see but Kimberly and I at the age of seven were too young to see the certificate of an over twelve movie.

Mum had said it was far too cold for ice cream so dad was running out of ideas. I remember that the wind had been blowing quite fiercely that day, I saw an old man chase a five pound note down the street, he caught it but not before bumping into a lamppost .

The wind rushed past my cheeks and whistled in my ears , people wrapped their coats around them like shields and hurried to where they were going. It was that same wind that blew the five of us into the photo shop that day.

Dad was like a small kid, excited with his discovery, a small shop about seven doors down for the cinema in the same complex next to the bowling alley, I’d never noticed it before. The windows displaying large portraits of people in Victorian and Tudor clothing. The photos had been taken In sepia and black and white, some with hair lines and light burns through them for effect.

Mum explained to Kimberly, Jonathan and I that we were all going to dress up like we were from the American civil war period. I said the outfits looked silly. Kimberly said in a mater of fact way that this is what people wore in the olden days but I don’t think she really knew.

There was so many styles to choose from, I choose a peach silk dress with a pale satin sash. The matching hat had a ridiculous feather. It was so big it just flopped to the side, Kimberly choose a similar style in blue, dad and Jonathan were allowed to hold fake pistols, Kimberly and I tried.

to convince Jonathan to swap his pistol gun with our umbrellas. They were made out of cloth and didn’t even open.

Mum had the nicest dress of all , layers of lace and silk fabric with extra padding underneath. It was so big an assistant from the shop had to help her into some sort of cage and corset before the dress was fitted over it.

The photographer arranged us with mum in the middle and me and Kimberly on either side of her. I was hot and uncomfortable.

The photographer told us not to smile to make the photo look authentic.

A few tourists and couples busied themselves trying on clothes and choosing their theme. The five of us posed for a few more photos before the photographer called “that’s a wrap.” Kimberly and I got to choose which photo would be printed and framed before running off to the changing rooms.

mum yank the dress over my arms while tutting and telling me to hold my arms up straight. It was Kimberly’s turn to have a hot head now. I bent down and crawled under the rack of dresses to find her, she wasn’t there, I went back to where we had been sitting to get our photos taken; she wasn’t there either. Mum and dad started looking for Kimberly too. We looked near the props section. Maybe Kimberly had gone to take a closer look at the plastic pistols , she wasn’t there nor was she in any of the nine changing rooms either.

I think I threw up and passed out while looking for her. I remember dad carrying me to the car and my trainers being soaked in something acidic, from the back seat I could hear mum talking to the police in hysterics. I covered my ears, I knew her head was spinning because mine was too.

The police later informed us that a paedophile had been praying on children in the area. Kimberly was gone, we never found her . Dad and mum put up’ missing child’ poster all around Hammersmith and Chelsea. The neighbours all chipped in but nothing came of that.

As the weeks turned into months there was no new information. Months blurred into years. When I was old enough to ride the bus on my own, on several occasions after school I would visit the photo shop where Kimberly disappeared. The shop was under new management but the shop assistant knew why I was there.

I would check under the tables next to the hats. I really don’t know what I was hoping to find. All I could imagine was Kimberly huddled somewhere, frightened and scared, pulling at her itchy woollen scarf

.

As I matured into a teenage and Jonathan left for Bournemouth university the arguments between mum and dad became more frequent.

We all knew my mother blamed my father for making us go out on such a windy day, my dad blamed my mum for not keeping an eye on Kimberly by the time I moved out four years later they hardly spoke at all.

Its been twenty years since Kimberly went missing. I straightened the photo and kissed my mum on the cheek and thanked her as she entered the living room with my birthday cake, five plates and twenty seven red candles. All four of us took our place on the sofa . Mum pressed the timer on the camera, she carefully cut five slices, one for me, one for dad, one for herself and Jonathan and the last slice is always set next to an empty chair for Kimberly just in case she is found and comes home one day.

At last the setting has begun – a jet-stream hangs like a chalk mark boasting: one to the sun. Midsummer. Night descends – gently, certainly – through gold and candy peach to light-less lapiz depths, but I am not scared. Traces of jasmine, fried chicken, idle rose and honey-suckles on hot tarmac and the soles of my shoes lick, stick, linger on the pavement. Translucent seed heads bank and shine and sway and serenade the murmurs of young lovers as they skim and roll along the limestone town hall walls. Beyond traffic, the cellophane and flowers bristle on a railing for the face on a t-shirt hung by a mother’s mourning. The electric moons of street-lamps rise again and all that she can do is mouth mute warnings and rewind, replay and fail to erase that doom of a day. Please God. Not him. Please no. Oh God. And the whisper of a boy’s last breath escapes from the landing of a lonely, acrid stairwell: there is truth and there are rumours but I don’t feel scared.

Here I am: Standing.

I am standing on my heights; standing all alone. I don’t recall how long I have been standing here.

Days!

My days are my nights. My nights are my days. I could never tell the difference between night and day.

I lost count. I count no more.

I have been standing here so long that I don’t recall when I arrived here. I don’t remember.

I just don’t want to remember.

I am cold. I am very cold.

I have only one friend that I call the void. I can never have a better friend. This always allows me to expand. There is no limit for my expansion. I like it.

I am getting big, so big that I can move no more. Did I ever move? I don’t recall.

I am standing here, on my heights all alone and I got only one friend that is the void.

I am invincible.

I can’t look down. I don’t want to look down. There is nothing to see there.

I’ll look straight in front of me. This is better. There is nothing in front of me!

I should look elsewhere. There is no elsewhere.

I should look down! I can’t look down.

I have to stand here. I am standing here! I am not moving!

I am invincible.

I’ll try to move just a little as I feel tired from standing in my place that long. Just a bit.  Then I will come back to my place. I should never leave my place.

I am moving; it seems fine to move a little!

I am slipping! I should hang on! I am slipping! I can’t hang on!

There is nothing to hold me. The void couldn’t hold me.

I am falling.

I thought I am invincible; I fell.

 

Here I am: Falling.

I am so afraid. I should have never moved from my place.

I am so afraid and I am falling. I try to hang on, but the more I try, the more I get shattered into pieces.

I am so afraid. I am so angry. I got so angry while I am falling. I found loneliness only as friend.

I am furious. I destroyed everything I touch during my fall.

I heard them calling me names. It hurts. It hurts so much. They even called me avalanche!

I never expected to be called like that. I am only falling. I am only falling all alone.

I am ravishing and bringing down with me everything that stands on my way.

I am also bringing down myself.

Myself?! Myself exists no more.

I am shattered into pieces all over the place.

I thought I would never stop falling; here I lay.

 

Here I am: Lying.

I am weak, shattered and almost dead. I am no longer that invincible. Invincible, I was!!

I lost myself. I don’t recognize my body anymore.

I am crying. I am crying. I am crying. All these tears gave me strength to rise.

Again! Again! Again!

I will give it a go and look what could be, there, in these places that I never wanted to look at.

I started running all around trying to explore and to understand. I faced lot of obstacles, but this time I did not try to break them, I learned to move around them. To my surprise, this gave me strength that I did not expect and push me to move more and more here and there.

I, who used to be always standing on his place.

My journey made me stronger but also turned me heavier. I am heavy full of faults. My body is full of mud. And I am tired. I am tired of running all alone.

I thought I would never meet you; here you are.

 

Here you are: Glittering.

You glitter in your place. It was the first time I saw you. It is the day that I remember well. It was early spring, the nicest day I’ve ever known. I was ashamed. I tried to hide. You saw me, came to me and stayed. You merged with me. You purified me. I don’t know if I got your soul or if you got my body. We are just one. You brought joy to my life. We were happy. We made other lives happy. Void and loneliness existed no more. Fulfillment and care took their place.

I thought I would never leave; I left.

 

Here I am: Flying.

I am flying away. I do remember the day when I had to leave. It was a hot summer day when I stopped breathing. Breathing?! Did I ever breathe? It was the day when my soul left my body. No. It can’t be that. It was the day when my body and soul just left. I see you from above. You are still glittering under the sunshine with your usual charm and glamour. You are so beautiful! You will always be.

I see you fading away as the wind is transporting me. I don’t know where I am going, but I know that I will join the dance and will adjust my rhythm to the song of the wind. 

I am riding the wind and wandering in all directions.

“Here I see this lovely lady with her pink necklace not quite diamonds but worth more because of love. I admire Francine’s treasure. Here I see a flag flying high next to the old Englishman’s house. I avoid bumping into this huge white horse fifty meters high.  I am shuffling around like things that go bump in the night. It is just like seconds of May. Look out there: Lights go on. Lights go off. Time had to stop at 9:05; Freyer Montague’s flowers always stayed the same. I saw robbery, murder by accident and stabbing in the back. Guessing, I also made sometimes. I even felt squeezed like a chocolate bar between the soya milk, peanut butter and a sandwich. There she is: This crazy woman knocking on Mr. Clarke door. Also, I saw Caroline not realizing that her date had started without her.

It is bloody freezing tonight. Collar up, cap down and scarf tight”.

I am seeing lot of stories different than mine. I am enjoying them all. Stories are always nice.

The wind might bring back as it might take me away.

I thought I would never be happy; I am happy.

Here I am happy.

I am happy because I know. I know what my name is.

My name is H2O!