Kirsty Lewin


Arrival

I remember. You will not have forgotten I will have been feverish when I hark back. I remember. You will take your tea three sugars not stirred, will lean across the table, press the cold teaspoon against my Parian cheek. You’re not what I expected, you will say. I remember. We will dance in the milk shadow of the sun as we run towards the eclipse, the colander half-moons scattering our skin. I remember. You will lie face down in buttercups, I’m measuring the beelines you will say, fancy a shag after? I remember. You will be swinging the keys, two for you one for me, the foolish spider plant snaking out from under your arm, half price from Aldi you will say, couldn’t resist. I remember. Your rough fingers will brash the nape of my neck, fiddling the clasp, the chain a cleave for your capital E. I remember. You will bring home a puppy, a bloodhound, you will name it Greggs, it won’t live more than a day. I remember. You will say the slap was just a dream, a blip between wake and kip, a dream you’d also had, you will say. What a coincidence. I remember. You will tell me how petals grow, that it’s all about a gene called jagged. I remember. I will slam the door in your grin every time you demand a fairy-lit crypt, a buddleia crown, a shroud of lepidoptera. I remember. You will remind me that your end will be a constellation of grief, illogical, and yellow. I remember. You will study the refracting light through the pond. Why, you will say to the frogs at the wake in your name, is the shine not taking the shortest route? I remember. You will chide the child we will never have because of the puppy that will not live, the way your mother will bilge and phlegm, your fault, Esme, your fault. I remember. You will stand in the village square in your sepal cloak, your dead Greggs held aloft, your psalms scoring blossom names across the heavens. I remember your death like it was tomorrow, the mouldering and wilting, your damson bloom. I remember. Your mother will say you’d always go first, that it was written in the anthers, that I’ll light a cigarette, kick her wretched corgi, Rex. I remember. You will say I’ve changed my mind, it’s not the end I want, there will be a scene, an almighty scene, the vicar rewriting his entire harangue. I remember. You will say you’re still mine, Esme, mine still, as I sit in the final pew in my final weep, the nylon grey hassocks firmament under my feet. I remember. That light, I will say to you, doesn’t bend the way you want it to, even now.

Kirsty Lewin lives in Edinburgh. She’s had poetry and short fiction published by Otoliths, The Blue Nib and the Scottish Writer’s Centre.

 
 

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