Miss Me

Tryst, detail (1)

It was an eerie light, white then green, flooding the sky beyond the rooftops. I thought of the aureole borealis and the light described in Michael Cunningham’s Snow Queen. What could it be? Was it a portent of some sort? I asked him. Come, I said, come and look at this light. Oh, he said. It’s a soccer match. They play every Friday night. That’s all. Nothing mystical. A prosaic answer to a sacred question.

My body is changing. It’s been doing it all it’s life, obviously. It heeds me not. It does its own thing. Presently, it sweats at night. My chest mainly. My sheets are made wet. Cold. Usually it comes between one and two am. A rush then stop. There is no odour. It is cool and clear. A flushing out. You could take something, he says. I could. There is all manner of drugs to stave off the inconvenience of ageing, of dying. For that is what we are all doing. No, I say, I don’t think so. I can live with it. I can live with the dying. I welcome it. It is honest, authentic. And I am more than my body. Am I not?

Walking I find things. Things dropped from pockets. Money, mostly. Today there was a brass button and a 13 amp fuse.

It’s a shabby craft. It’s pale blue paint is peeling. Out of the water, it sits high up on bricks. There is a hand-written sign, hanging from it’s hand rail. For Sale it reads and there is a mobile number underneath. The wind rattles at its rigging. It doesn’t seem sea-worthy. Not to me. Miss Me is for sale. Will anyone buy?