Freefall

She will catch the plane.
She will be home soon.
The airport is busy, moving,
a kind of organism; there is no place for stillness.
This is
no place for me. It is a place for waiting. Purgatory
or the long white corridor where you queue
on judgement day.
I would move faster than them all I would not be here.

It is announced
a bored nasal voice
somewhere above our heads and our eyes open
blink assume a look of energised wakefulness
we check our bags and belongings gather
up our children empty crisp packets and duty free
we stand feel creased and stiff and
we move like the voice tells us to we await
further instruction

I am sitting next to a man
and a girl about my age. They’re Dutch.
He has a tweed jacket and she has
just bought a mini tube
of paprika Pringles from the air
hostess. She offers. We refuse.
I fidget between them, look
from one to the other, watch
their mouths flowering strange words
that collect and clog the air above us,
press my toes against the soles of my shoes and
feel my breath breathing my heart beating.

She will be home soon.
Already
this very moment
a car is rolling along a motorway in her
honour in her name there are people
travelling for her people
ravelling their lives around her because because
because because
they love her.

On his birthday she has set her alarm to wake her at six am.
Waking, foetal, her whole weight pressed downwards
as if she had not climbed into bed last night
but rather,
fallen directly onto it from a great
height,
she reliefs, inwardly
warms, even
while stepping into cold corridor air on the way to the showers;
realising time will be quick today,
she will reach worth waiting for moments today
without noticing the wait.
A better day, and one more crossed off, overall.

Layering herself in clothes is safe, warmer,
less opaque
and so she wears a thermal long sleeved vest,
70 denier blacks, her knee length patterned skirt, her knee high boots with a low heel, a shirt, round neck jumper, a jacket.
Collecting her life into her bag she must hurry now,
remembering to lock the door,
then stumble out of the building into the immediately chilling morning air,
like
she is warm flat coke poured over a glassful of ice, she is
pouring herself over
the cold six thirty am of the day.

happy birthday
how are you
do you feel older
no no-one ever does
so what time is it with you now ok I was nearly right just a couple of hours out what have you been up to then
I know I miss you too
yes I love you
no I love you more
you’d better appreciate this I’ve got up early
just for you
it’s freezing
in a phone box just outside reception I can see my breath
don’t start telling me how nice your weather is that’s
just cruel
mmm
really
look sorry it’s only twenty past six here
I should really still be asleep
well happy birthday anyway I love you
if you were here I’d give you a proper kiss
ok
take care
bye
love you
bye

and the noise is growing until there’s
nothing else.
She has closed her eyes, sitting back in her chair,
hands gripping the armrests,
concentrating on a point of dark mystery far
and above her nose, eyes, forehead, far
and above the aeroplane where she sits; far
away from the noise buzzing the vibrations the momentum
this far
away the jump and queasy sink of her stomach reaches her brain
only distantly
like a memory from childhood,
as the plane raises its nose
and plunges into the sky
she is thinking about her breathing
inhaling
exhaling
she is thinking about lifting off pushing off throwing herself
away from this ground aiming at
home though aim doesn’t matter so
much its just the pushing off that matters
like the swimmer turning blind under water kicking
the edge of the pool and spinning away in one hurtling jerk
an instinctive movement, a reflex action, self preservation. Delayed.

Can you see it?
Coming from Geneva Geneva to Amsterdam lets see
There
No sorry that comes in at ten. We’re looking for eight thirty.
Ok there, there it is, gate 5 which is this way
Come on. Do you want to get a trolley. I think she’ll have a lot of luggage,
Wee pet.
Save time later anyway.

Right. What time do you make it now?

Did you know, if you get
the bus from the university campus
into Southampton city centre,
say if you wanted to go shopping,
and I don’t mean just clothes shopping, I mean going to Asda – and yes
there is a Safeway nearer but say you don’t have that much money and so you particularly want to go to Asda because you’ll save about
30% - then this bus is going to take you about
forty minutes. Forty minutes! Terrible.
And nearly always, the bus fills up like it’s
the bus that picks everyone up who doesn’t get into heaven;
all us sinners squash in and cough and murmur and steam
up the windows until its as if you’re in a steamy kind of rolling,
rattling box, the combined weight of our sinful
bodies rocking us hellwards down hills,
slipping squealing into traffic jams we can only see
opaquely through clouded glass.

She is about seven minutes away from sleep;
at the very drowsy heavy stage where she’s acting on the dream stage,
with dream people,
where occasionally she glimpses real life and
Real life gives her a little, proud acknowledging wave from the audience.
That’s my child, there.
Dreaming.

Zoom zoom, whoosh, high,
high in the sky.
I’m getting a plane soon.
An aeroplane. You know,
they fly. Like the ones
you get when you go to see
Granny and Grandad. Like when you go
to England. Sigh.