Visits home to Mum’s house always feel a bit strange. Especially these days with Gran gone and two houses in disarray and the dog flitting between affection and savagery. No, this is certainly no place for the feeble or unrelated right now.
It’s alright for me as I listen to the national in my backwards facing train seat, watching the drizzly fenland shrink into nothing in the distance but someone had to stay here and live inside the cocoons of weirdness that have been spun here. I’m sad to leave but I’m glad to be able to breath again.
Two dilapidated museums, strung with bells and wind-chimes, crosses and constant reminders of what came before. Dust making unfounded claims on the remnants of another life, unperturbed by months of indecision and tentative rearrangements.
There is a kind of organic density in the darkness here that lighbulbs simply cannot penetrate. Leaving space in the shadows for doubts to multiply and lending every motion to slurring like amateur stopped-motion.
The radio shouts out emphatically about the grace of god like this god could fix things, or make it OK that people suffer so. All I can see is a surface of bright shiny foil covering whatever is really underneath, and can you please tell me why must they keep on focusing on the polishing the shine and not nourishing the foundations of the tangible. I don’t somehow think that jesus is coming to save her from this mess but maybe having something paper-thin and shiny feels like the armour that she needs to wear.
It seems unfair to be leaving, to leave someone behind in this treacle that they have thickened even by themselves – to just walk away from a household in such need of care and hope and vitality.
I’ll be back soon, and I’m bringing my armour to help slay these tenuous webs of guilt and uncertainty. No-one should have to breathe such toxins in every day.
“I’m under the gun again,
I know I was a 45 percenter then”
~the national, I need my girl