8-9 Years Old

A lost year. Unable to cope with the continued absence of my daughter and her mother I lost much of my world to darkness. I can see only the drawer with its unspeakable envelope, the mirror, and the fridge from which I constantly eat.

In the mirror: I am wearing a fake Italian moustache and a straw Chinese hat. In my pocket there is a dry ladybird and at my breast a squalid poppy. There is a world outside of this, I know because May still comes here for “custody”, which we both try to enjoy.

I remove the hat and moustache before she arrives, I hurry around the house, everything is clean, everything folded neatly.

At this age May has become contrary. I try to remind her of the things that last week were her favourite. Sweets, some pyjamas, a character from a television programme. Wrong, wrong wrong. At the beginning of each visit I spend a few hours being wrong.

Then a few hours of silence, inexplicably nervous suddenly for this dwarf's attention. I made her (up) and now I virtually have a heart attack every time I ask her a question.

By the end of the final day of her visit, I think I have a grasp on the situation, and have imparted unexpected wisdom. We say good bye sad and relieved. Full of dread for next week’s visit.

Eventually I had a collapse. I didn't move, or open my eyes or eat. I didn’t answer the door when May came round. I ignored hours of knocking. Tears unheeded by me for the first time seeped under the invisible door and dried into powder.

With my eyes closed I was reduced to imagining (how pathetic!) that I might be happy. I pictured us in a huge home. Wide doors. Pretty colours. The endless sound of laughter and hurr-ah!

But I couldn’t imagine the future without some evil befalling us all. An affair. Finances. A death! I am incapable of even make-believe contentment, even for a few days.

Eventually I answer the door, there is no one there, but a post card on the mat:

“Wish you were here.” It says. Me too.