Homecoming

=Homecoming=

Think, two things on their own and both at once. The first, that exercise in trust, where those in front stand with their arms spread wide and free-fall backwards, blind, and those behind take all the weight. The second, one canary-yellow cotton jacket on a cloakroom floor, uncoupled from its hook, becoming scuffed and blackened underfoot. Back home the very model of a model of a mother, yours, puts two and two together, makes a proper fist of it and points the finger. Temper, temper. Questions in the house. You seeing red Blue murder. Bed. Then midnight when you slip the latch and sneak no further than the calJ-box at the corner of the street; I'm waiting by the phone, although it doesn't ring because it's sixteen years or so before we'll meet. Retrace that walk towards the garden gate; in silhouette a father figure waits there, wants to set things straight. These ribs are pleats or seams. These arms are sleeves. These fingertips are buttons, or these hands can fold into a clasp, or else these fingers make a zip or buckle, you say which. Step backwards into it and try the same canary-yellow cotton jacket, there, like this, for size again. It still fits.