Light-bulbs keep pinging. The smell of cigarette smoke still lingers in the bedroom though nobody here smokes. A puddle of water under the sink without discernible source. I am reading too many ghost stories. Crawling into bed each night on my knees with exhaustion and a mithering migraine, but still so eager to fall into a world where rooks haunt little boys and silly ideas seep into the velvet folds of my mind.
Do you think we read to hide from ourselves? To discover more about worlds we will never live in? Do we read to escape our own reality? Or to become more ourselves by discovering things we couldn’t excavate alone? What is reading for? I am demented by why’s lately. So many questions bubbling about my head and a distinct lack of acceptance or experience for the sake of it.
Autumn then, renders me introspective. Self-absorbed. And hypochondriac! So damn hypochondriac. An hour lost to investigating why the skin that ties my tongue to the floor of my mouth feels wobblier than usual. Over-long consultations with Doctor Google. Opening my mouth and insisting my son stares into the abyss and diagnose what ails me. And then just as quickly forgetting that the wobbly bit feels wobbly and going about my business in a house flavored constantly by the chicken stock simmering almost permanently in the slow cooker. For soup season is upon us and our menu has been reduced to roast chicken, balsamic sweet potatoes, broccoli and soup fashioned from whatever I find in the fridge. Sipped from big cups together at lunchtime. Staring at the
Outside the grass is sodden and the gardener who broke the gate told to sling his hook in no uncertain terms because he will not abide by our request to tell us when he will be arriving and instead climbs over the fence or takes the gate off its very hinges with a screwdriver and surprises me just when I have managed to manoeuvre my hefty self into the downward dog. One does so hate to be surprised by a man who chirps “mines black with one sugar” whenever one dares to peek at what he has taken it into his head to do, despite being told to only attend to the lawn…
Inside my favorite fur
Home comforts then: a
Now. A child, the tracker on my phone reliably reliably informs me, is almost home from school. Popping down the hall to the door to see if I can see him ambling up the lane. A towel ready to hug him dry.
A homecoming that never grows old and is still so anticipated. My boy. My house. My world. Autumn. Beautiful rainy Autumn. And a wobbly bit under my tongue.