Sleeping in the Car

We did it alot as children, mostly coming home from being away in Ireland or Wales or Scotland. We’d be put in our nighties and tucked in sleeping bags in the back, then carried, when we got home, straight to our beds. How I loved that, that being taken care of, transported from one warm place to another. I also relished being tucked up in the car and yielding to its motion. I adore being driven (if the driver is steady and careful) – that succumbing to going forward, somewhere, anywhere. As a young child I’d look at the streetlights, the motorway lights and watch the line of them flickering as we sped past. But this was a dream. And I wasn’t asleep, no I was very much awake, overhearing plots of assassination. He was asleep, comatose in the car, oblivious to all my fears and concerns. It made me tetchy with him. Is it the moon?

I wake from dreams into the still dark and the shadows of them stay with me as I bathe, get dressed and walk. They linger. The two worlds becoming one. He wants to shake his off as soon as he wakes. Mine trouble me and yet I still want to understand.

I finished it in a day. He was pleased, impressed even. And then there was another email offering more work. I’m glad. I’m pleased and even the fear of failure is so far manageable. Hello, I say to it. You still here? So be it. We will work together you and I. Won’t we? A gentler day today, experimenting with alphabets. Let me make these ideas manifest. Let me open to the possibilities of myself. It is all there. All of it. Within. I need nothing more. Except him. How I shall miss him when he decides to go. It will happen. I will be alone. But not yet. Not yet.