Bottled up for later viewing

We're in the pool, Keeto and I, in the morning.

I go under.

I hear the muted weight of the water.

I see the sun cast a shimmering golden-blue net on the floor.

Then - I hear a muffled splash a moment before I see my child appear in an explosion of sparkling bubbles, limbs making a funny shape, hair standing up, cheeks puffed out in a close-mouthed grin.

A solitary bubble escapes my mouth, carrying my laugh upwards, silent air-filled delight bursting on the surface, lost in the waves as we rise ourselves.

"Did you see that, Amma? I'm going to do it again!"

Would that bubbles were not so transient.

The Sea

Here we are, on the beach, wind in our hair, saltwater and each other's kisses on our lips.

Look, there on the horizon where sea meets sky, that's what a false promise looks like.

Here be dragons, they said, of the ever-changing sea.

Still you are drawn, unable to resist its promises, promises of adventure, of danger, of endless possibility.

The sea, whispering endlessly in perilous invitation:
Come, sail off into the sunset, go where the winds may lead;
Might you dive for pearls, for forgotten galleons, for lost Atlantis in the deep?
Would you brave the sirens, Leviathan's jaws, the grasp of the Kraken so long asleep?
Whom might you meet, Jonah in a whale, mermaids fair, old Poseidon himself?

A fickle mistress, the sea, she'll toss you away when she tires of you. Turn away, my love, stop your ears and harden your heart. Stay, my love, and let the steamer that brought you depart in the morn.

The scent of you is still on my pillow, your warmth still on the sheets.

Here I am, on the beach, saltwater not from the sea on my cheek.

Look, there on the horizon, where sea meets sky, that's what a false promise looks like.

Afternoonshine

Diamonds sparkle on the creek. How to describe it, the dance of sunlight on the water? Why does it evoke this strange longing?

Perhaps it is because in that moment when the sunlight catches it, the droplet flames silver, for all its permanence like a human being in the spotlight for a fleeting moment in an evanescent lifetime, saying I was here, I lived, I glistened, I shone. 

Age

Skin like parched earth, crackled, paper-thin. Hair like spun silver.

A full set of teeth, of which he is incredibly proud. A full set of teeth, not her own.

Rows of little plastic boxes, each full of pills.

The smell of ointment, of disinfectant, and of urine.

He cannot say what he wants to say.

She cannot remember.

All of it does not matter - the skin, the hair, the teeth, the never-ending boxes of medicine, the smell, the memories slipping away.

All that matters is that he cannot do maths. And she cannot manage the kitchen.

I am useless, they say, this man who wrote until he was 90, this woman who cooked until she was 80.

That is their greatest burden, these humans who worked themselves to the bone for nearly a century, that they have none left to bear. 

Breathe.

Deep breaths, now.

We used to rule the world. We shaped the very rocks, we bent metal to our will. But all that changed, a long time ago.

We were so busy conquering the world that we didn't notice the changes. They were slow at first, warning signs that told us of our doom. We didn't heed them, the signs, we dismissed the oracles, ridiculed the harbingers of the end. Until it was too late.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

In the beginning, the world was beautiful. We could go where we would, the air was sweet, the water was clear, and we lived in harmony with the others.

We prospered, we multiplied. We filled the planet, we numbered in the billions.

Breathe.

That was the trouble. We breathed in. And out. Every breath we let out was poison. Toxic waste streaming out of our colonies. Soiling the air. Destroying the earth. The rocks turned red. The oceans became acid.

All the while, we breathed.

The others died first. Some choked on the fumes and died. Some burned. Some froze. It all happened quickly, in the end.   And quietly. You'd expect some sort of sound at the apocalypse, screams, thunder, fury. The apocalypse is silent and carries the stench of corpses.

Still we breathed.

We left our homes, we burrowed underground. We fed off the dead ones, we closed ourselves off from the poison in the air.

We breathed in and we breathed out.

And we waited.

We are everywhere, under your feet, in your animals, your skin, your mouths, your innards. We gave you your air, we gave you everything that feeds and clothes and shelters you.

You think you rule the world.

But it happens again. We can read them, the signs that tell of your doom. You don't heed them, the signs, you dismiss the oracles, ridicule the harbingers of the end. It is too late now. For you, but not for us, never for us.

We breathe in. And we breathe out.

Ambition

A shimmering mirage, the vision magicked up by the boundless optimism of youth, glittering cruelly, just there, reach out and you'll touch it, just a bit further, oh no it's receding, there, that speck in the distance, run run before it vanishes, you'll never reach it, you've failed, you've failed. 

Scheherazade

When I tell you a story, your eyes light up, they sparkle, they shine. You laugh out loud and you tremble with fear and you recoil in disgust and you cry real tears of sorrow. You're the heroine and the villain and the jester and the sidekick. When I tell you a story, we're not us, we're better and we're worse and we're newer and we're older and we're sillier and we're wiser and we're one.

Ten months in

There's a stuffed lamb on my bed, a stack of nappies on the headboard.
A singing yellow bus, a cardboard tube that doubles as a drumstick, and a bar of Yardley lavender lie underfoot.
Assorted board books are stacked in front of the Terry Pratchetts.
A steriliser sits next to the microwave.
The extension boxes are hidden behind heavy furniture.
A blue potty and a plastic tub clutter up my bathroom.
A green monkey and an orange turtle have taken permanent residence in the mug.
There's an ache in my lower back, a crick in my right wrist, and a stiffness in my triceps that never go away.
There are snot marks on my black kurta and carrot-soup-stains on my white one.
There's the washing, the sterilising, the changing, the steaming, the puréeing, the changing, the feeding, the packing up, the changing to do all over again.
There's a baby in my arms and he's hugging me tight and he's grinning at me with his three and a half teeth and he's squealing when I tickle him and he's kissing me without knowing how and he's turned my house my life my heart upside down and inside out and right side up again.