Lindie Heeralall

I got up, brushed my teeth, made tea, sliced watermelon into triangles, toasted seeded bread and spread far too much butter on it, put the cereal on the dining table, milk, bowls, knives and spoons. I showered and repeatedly told my son to get ready. ‘Have a shower, get dressed, put suncream on, brush your hair, have a wee before we go, put your trainers on, get your bag’. These things I say many times over, with varying degrees of frustration ranging in tone from relaxed, to calm, to firm, to angry, to desperate plea, before we make it into the street on a fresh, sunny September morning.

Which way?’ I always ask.
‘Steps.’ He always answers.

And off we go, crushing the hazelnuts beneath our feet on the pavement, holding our breath near the dog poo bin and pausing to watch a pigeon feather floating to the ground before us. We hold hands and he reads car licence plates along the way. ‘Morning,’ I say to the shy couple walking their dog, to the chipper fellow, to the friendly, tall lady with the warm Irish accent. And at the school gates my son lets go of my hand.

‘Leave me here.’ He says. He is embarrassed to hug me now. ‘You can hug but no kisses.’ He instructs.

I walk home with a young woman and her toddler. Talk is light, but my head is dark today. I am not good at being light, when I am dark inside. It makes me feel alone, dysfunctional, alien. I cut the long grass. The grasshopper leaps out of my way. The mower turns the windfall to mush. I trim and mow and compost and launder and cooked my way through the day but always with a gnawing in my gut. Something is wrong. I listen to Louis Theroux interview Ben Elton and Annie Mac interview Zadie Smith while I tidy, wipe and vacuum, but these interesting minds begin clamouring for space up the sides of my skull, so I tug the headphones away from hot ears.

At 5.30 I cook green curry with quorn, peppers and mushrooms for my family. I smile as my son sucks a mushroom from his plate, ‘I hate mushrooms’, so he says. It’s the little things. After the family is fed and the last wash load is hung out to dry, I escape to the guest room, where I ask myself what is wrong? My subconscious mind has been shouting at my waking one all day long and will not be silenced no matter how many times I try to bury it beneath piles of laundry and lawn clippings. The Word tells me of a dream I had last night.

I am with Mum. She is young, her back is straight, and she is tall. Her hair is in a long bob, and she wears a pale blouse, cinched at the waist with a belt, like in the video of one Christmas, some thirty years ago. We are in a care home. She is moving into an apartment there, and it is quite smart. The room is pale pink and lilac, her favourite colours. The light is on, the curtains are open, and it is dark outside. She knows me. She is happy. My third sister has arranged her clothes by spreading them out on the floor, which makes them hard to reach. And her other clothes are in black cases on the same side of the room as the door. She says she is going for a bath. I think it is a good idea to help her relax. After she has left the room, I realise she will never remember the way back. There are so many rooms. She will be confused. And I will get into trouble with the others. I search the corridors and tell the nurses and they begin to look for her too. I do not see her again.

The dream reminded me of something important that I should not ignore. A profound sense of loss has become my shadow and if I do not let it breathe, it will become my whole.

Here, now, my lovely little boy has come to join me. He is reading The Witches by Roald Dahl. He peers at my screen and sees me writing him in and his little smirk warms my heart. His head is resting heavily on my right arm, restricting the blood flow to my fingers so my typing may have to cease. Another thing I am grateful for. Bedtime for the little one.

Night all. And sweet dreams.