pi & anne

Several visits melt into each other. One of them: he stands in front of me at Birmingham airport, towering over me, we hug for a long time. Another one: he waves at me. But this time I leave the terminal and spot him sitting on a round bench, absorbed by a book he’s reading. I pause, then move closer. It’s not without awkwardness, and still it’s just like five years ago. A lot has happened in between. A lot has been frozen in time, during Corona.

I feel as if we both have grown and shrunk. And yes, we HUG. I have missed this so much. Do you need some down time before we go to the parking lot? No, I don’t think so. Are you okay to head to our house now? I am. I so am.

The untended side
of my language
that i don’t know
what to do with this
quiet    question        clouds            my hands … 

The hills are intensely green. The grass is green at home too, but why is it so much brighter in this place? I don’t know. My brain makes strange adjustments here, staying on the left side of the road.

I talk about
the trees, the landscape, the signs,
anything that is
tuning the chords
in my chest. 

The wallpaper in the small hallway covers the whole left-hand side. It is light blue with a hint of teal, but on it the white silhouettes of deer, foxes, hares and birds roam among the branches and leaves of the trees. Light spills in. On the right-hand side, a small bench fills the alcove. The next door is closed so the cats can’t scuddle out through the front door that leads to a gravel bed with wild orange and yellow flowers. “Ooooh. I think these are poppies.” – “Are you sure?”I take off my shoes and step inside.

This time we won’t be cutting the tarot deck.

Slow, slow—
I fish
in my hesitation
to say it out loud,
where is any easiness?

The cats ignore me by paying attention to me, ha. Move slowly. Their stories have just ’I’s and no interrogatives.

Boy, I’m tired. I want to stay awake late, but I start yawning at 8pm. I have forgotten how much work that is, feeling, almost like first syllable purrs.

The guest room has been moved upstairs. A soft brown teddy-bear is leaning against the pillow, with a red satin bow. The thing is: I asked if they might have a spare pillow for me to hug, just in case, but this is so much better. Hi, Bear.

At dawn, Stitch, the tuxedo cat, wakes me up and waits in front of the small table by the window until I pull the chair out, so he can jump from there onto the windowsill. He watches the garden, the sky, the birds. I join him and his eyes make sure I don’t come any closer. We stay put for several minutes, ruling a world that is still easy-going.

I pull
the curtain walls—
a foreign country,
taking my breaths
as they are.

In the living room, which consists of two parts and an open passageway between, I can see the garden through a full-length white window. My feet sink into a thick, soft, fitted carpet. A warm, neutral colour. A sofa, two armchairs, a blanket on each one. But the piano remains closed.

Above the fireplace is a painting of tree trunks, a forest, somehow blurred, somehow sharp. “We saw it in a little shop in Ireland, yet we didn’t buy it straight away. It kept popping into our minds, so we rang and the owner sent it to us.” A pair of bronze hares glisten leisurely in the afternoon sun.

There is a forest in the forest in this house.

I want to get lost in it. There are too many things to discover. I can’t help but smile, I can’t stop smiling. I greet more animals of the woods in the kitchen cupboard. The dishwasher is broken. I’m back at the campsites of my childhood, insist on helping, soaking my hands in water until they’re all wrinkly and rosy. I don’t wear gloves, I want to feel the heat, the smooth porcelain, the soap bubbles. I want to feel EVERYTHING.

A load of dishes
and the swoosh of the tea towel
deep in my skin
I think I can remember,
I really think I can.

We loosely go about our days. He asks what I would like to do, and I don’t think too long about it. It’s something I need to relearn. Okay. Here’s what I come up with: Museum. Movie. Learning to bake scones. A game.

The mug with the fox
and the round marks
next to the coaster,
am I missing
something?

One evening we watch Princess Mononoke and I almost cry.

The time we spend together, it just piles up. It becomes a set of cards. It becomes a staircase. A laid dinner table. A daily walk. A handwritten schedule on the guest room table so I can plan my time here, and know when they have appointments. It becomes one evening. One evening on which we watch the Eurovision Song Contest. I find nuts at my feet in the garden sun because I’m looking for them. 

Afternoon tea
with three plates
in time
I add more clotted cream
to my happiness.

I ask can you explain DnD to me, please and his enthusiasm is infectious. A mellow light is streaming through the north-facing window. He pulls out one book after the other, and his eyes light up. It’s more than clear, this is his space, with maps and art and stickers and memorabilia. I wish I could live in a land of dices, all ways equally imaginable.

One late afternoon in the garden, I write down what I didn’t know I had inside, an angry grief. It’s getting damp, the shadows lengthen.

The cats let me touch them, their silky fur. Good boys.

Cutting words
out of old mags
to make a mini book,
some poems to acknowledge
I know motivation.

I pick the local museum for a visit. The exhibits are in no chronological order, arranged according to fauna, flora, paintings, clothing, activities. There are mummies, the armour of a samurai, fossils, butterflies, paintings by Joseph Wright. I wander from room to room and decide on the spot whether to stay or move on, I don’t know how, what drives me. It all just happens, without a plan. I am glad I don’t have a plan. I’m branching out.

Lakes, old stone walls line
the narrow country road—
I watch the landscapes,
every thing,
pass.

We drive to a forest that blends into the fields outside Derby. In the car I struggle with what I want to say, it seems to be stuck in my throat. Why is it so hard, just why? As we take a walk, our words and the low sun between the rows of trees soften, soften, soften.

Much, much later, I ask, “Is it okay to write about you, the house and my visit?” About everything that hasn’t been said. Because it wasn’t necessary. — “Absolutely!”