used to joke when we first got together that if it weren’t for work, we’d just stay in bed forever. I’m not sure he expected me to ever carry through my threat. After he went, I lay here for days on end, weeks even. When I’d pulled myself together and could leave the house, I’d still spend my evenings here, going through old photo albums. Because I’d painted the bedroom the same duck-egg blue as our old kitchen, I could almost pretend we were still living in our flat – before everything went wrong.
I redecorated a couple of years ago. I wanted to start afresh, find Molly Carter again, so I painted the room a rich mulberry colour. It felt cosy, womblike. It said ‘single’ not ‘sad’. The now-bare balcony windows were framed by thick, lustrous gold curtains; over the bed was the same print of John and Yoko I’ve had since uni. Stacked around the edge of the room were piles of photography and art books, and my dressing table next to the balcony doors. That’s still there complete with a couple of framed photos I haven’t wrapped up yet. One is of my mum and dad on their wedding day. I go and pick it up. I gaze critically at the picture. I used to hate how serious they look but now I appreciate how hard marriage is, how much a couple has to face together in a lifetime. And how solid you have to be to stay together through all those ups and downs. I am in awe of them. Not just for staying together but because of how strong they’ve been for me.
I rip off some bubble wrap from the roll that’s lying on the floor and look at the picture one more time before wrapping it, noticing how my dad gazes into the camera lens with his wistful smile that I know is his version of heart-burstingly happy. I pop the picture in a box marked ‘Ship’ and glance outside.
The January morning has lifted its blanket of darkness and the vast sky is now stonewash blue with a filter of bright, white sunlight peeking through. It is going to be a beautiful day. I smile and open the doors, stepping out to where my wrought-iron table was placed until it was packed up along with the two chairs. I have sat there for uncountable hours in all weather, the changing seasons reflecting my changing state of mind. The winter rain mixed with my tears, the spring breeze blew away my misery, the summer sun healing my broken heart.
I hop back in and head over to the fitted wardrobes. I open a door and gaze at the contents on one side as I rifle through.
My jeans are thrown haphazardly in a way that would make a Gap sales assistant faint. My favourite grey skinnies are packed away so I root around for my other fail-safe denim option: dungarees. I know, I know, the item of clothing style forgot, but they’re so comfy . And as my mum would say, ‘You’re moving house, my dear, not going on a fashion parade’. Funny how eventually you really do start turning into your mum. And most surprisingly, how you don’t actually mind.
I pull them on and look in the mirror that is leaning against the wall. I barely recognize myself. OK, so I thought the dungarees were comfy but cute in an ironic 1980s Demi-Moore-in- Ghost kind of a way, but I now realize I look more like Meryl Streep in Mamma Mia . I giggle at the thought and I unselfconsciously replicate a few Abba moves in front of the mirror, singing the chorus of the title song under my breath. I’m interrupted by the doorbell just as I get to the broken-hearted bit.
The Welcome Kiss
I’d never really understood that phrase ‘bosom of the family’ until I met Ryan’s. Probably because my family’s ‘bosom’ always felt meagre in comparison to most; the love was small, contained, more of a Kate Moss double-A cup than the Baywatch bust I longed for. Their love didn’t seem to cushion or protect me, or spill out showily. When I was young I wondered if I’d ever know the kind of ostentatious shows of affection that ‘normal’ families seem to have. And having rested my head in the
I redecorated a couple of years ago. I wanted to start afresh, find Molly Carter again, so I painted the room a rich mulberry colour. It felt cosy, womblike. It said ‘single’ not ‘sad’. The now-bare balcony windows were framed by thick, lustrous gold curtains; over the bed was the same print of John and Yoko I’ve had since uni. Stacked around the edge of the room were piles of photography and art books, and my dressing table next to the balcony doors. That’s still there complete with a couple of framed photos I haven’t wrapped up yet. One is of my mum and dad on their wedding day. I go and pick it up. I gaze critically at the picture. I used to hate how serious they look but now I appreciate how hard marriage is, how much a couple has to face together in a lifetime. And how solid you have to be to stay together through all those ups and downs. I am in awe of them. Not just for staying together but because of how strong they’ve been for me.
I rip off some bubble wrap from the roll that’s lying on the floor and look at the picture one more time before wrapping it, noticing how my dad gazes into the camera lens with his wistful smile that I know is his version of heart-burstingly happy. I pop the picture in a box marked ‘Ship’ and glance outside.
The January morning has lifted its blanket of darkness and the vast sky is now stonewash blue with a filter of bright, white sunlight peeking through. It is going to be a beautiful day. I smile and open the doors, stepping out to where my wrought-iron table was placed until it was packed up along with the two chairs. I have sat there for uncountable hours in all weather, the changing seasons reflecting my changing state of mind. The winter rain mixed with my tears, the spring breeze blew away my misery, the summer sun healing my broken heart.
I hop back in and head over to the fitted wardrobes. I open a door and gaze at the contents on one side as I rifle through.
My jeans are thrown haphazardly in a way that would make a Gap sales assistant faint. My favourite grey skinnies are packed away so I root around for my other fail-safe denim option: dungarees. I know, I know, the item of clothing style forgot, but they’re so comfy . And as my mum would say, ‘You’re moving house, my dear, not going on a fashion parade’. Funny how eventually you really do start turning into your mum. And most surprisingly, how you don’t actually mind.
I pull them on and look in the mirror that is leaning against the wall. I barely recognize myself. OK, so I thought the dungarees were comfy but cute in an ironic 1980s Demi-Moore-in- Ghost kind of a way, but I now realize I look more like Meryl Streep in Mamma Mia . I giggle at the thought and I unselfconsciously replicate a few Abba moves in front of the mirror, singing the chorus of the title song under my breath. I’m interrupted by the doorbell just as I get to the broken-hearted bit.
The Welcome Kiss
I’d never really understood that phrase ‘bosom of the family’ until I met Ryan’s. Probably because my family’s ‘bosom’ always felt meagre in comparison to most; the love was small, contained, more of a Kate Moss double-A cup than the Baywatch bust I longed for. Their love didn’t seem to cushion or protect me, or spill out showily. When I was young I wondered if I’d ever know the kind of ostentatious shows of affection that ‘normal’ families seem to have. And having rested my head in the
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