<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Hallway <\/p>\n <\/p>\n
\n<\/strong>
\nI can\u2019t imagine how it must have been:
\nmy sudden, sticky fists, my turbulence,
\nmy fretful sleep. The constant interruptions,
\nthe mess, the uncontrollable outpour of love
\nlike a reflex, a weeping wound. And then
\nthe years, hurling themselves out of the
\nhorizon towards her:\u00a0\u00a0I was 8, then 10,
\nthen 14, safe and self possessed, the world
\nlike scenery in a video game, pulling itself together
\nin front of me as I moved through it.
\nWhen I wasn\u2019t there, it didn\u2019t exist.
\nLife was simple and singular
\nand all mine. Until that one slow Thursday
\nwe left school early, the broken boiler
\nstuttering its complaint. About to
\nannounce myself in the hallway, I heard it:
\nthe lift and catch of the piano
\nunravelling under my mother\u2019s hands.
\nI opened the door and saw her, small
\nin her cardigan, eyes closed,\u00a0somewhere else.
\nThere are some rooms you could enter
\nbut don\u2019t: I stood quiet and uncertain,
\nshivering like a just-plucked violin string;
\nwashed up in the hallway, wondering at her life.<\/p>\n