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| Are we nearly there yet? | |
| By emma777 | ||||
| 27 August 2008 | ||||
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Hope you enjoy this... any comments and feedback much appreciated as always!! Thanks! Emma Happy half-closed eyes watch the rain collect on the glass. Reassuring, predictable, droplets. And so very very many. The droplets playfully teasing each other as they live for a moment, like the bugs in Nanny's conservatory. I squint my eyes until the once beautiful gems are bleeding and blurring into a disfigured sky. I wonder if Billy is really sleeping back there or if he just likes the attention. Her wipers flip. The old lady’s loose chest is shaking, clicking and ticking over as she sleeps in the rain (keeping us cocooned in her warm, dry breath) waiting for Dad to return; running ‘cross the cobbles to declare to his wards (in blankets and arms and crumbs and glowing dials) that they must keep searching for a place to sleep tonight (was he failing in his duty?) but that they would find a place soon (if the old car doesn’t run out of petrol); looking back to the youngest sleeping peacefully on his wife’s lap, he swiftly puts the car in gear (if only they’d stayed on the motorway). I click on the radio and Dad clicks it off again without saying a word. The car pulls out of the driveway and continues back to join the flow of faceless light streams losing themselves in the dark. Soft fingers sift gently through downy blonde hair. Mum looks down at her watch and worries; not a good start to the holiday (it was all that traffic on the motorway). She leans across to me sitting in the front, and says, “We might have to go all the way there” I turn back to the window watching the dark trees whipping by and rest my head on the shuddering glass. “It’s ok Mum” She turns to Dad anxiously, “how far is it Dave?” “Another hour and a half maybe” he replied. She shifts a little under Billy’s weight (he’s getting big now) and smiles. Billy dreams that his mother is stroking his hair. The car is brought to a noisy silence. We spill out into the cold. Billy wakes and his eyes peel open as if for the first time. His soft pink cheeks pressed into Mum’s corduroy trousers are suddenly peeled away exposing the stripy cheek of a yawning, grimacing floppy wooden-top child. Dad has seized him, whipping him up and striding off to the room. A little dazed Billy looks around, whimpers, then goes straight back to sleep on the pink scratchy blanket. Relatives muster. The much anticipated rupture has cut through our womb. We’re there. The holiday’s over.
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