Gone

Don’t think of the sea, or the boats glistening in the sun or of the swimming pool in France where you do length after length and never think of tomorrow. Don’t think of mountains or picnics, or the feeling of long grass brushing your legs, or the sand between your toes, or the shushing murmur of the water lapping against shingle. It’s lost to us for now, somewhere beyond and unreachable.   

Don’t think of the rumble of the train on the track, or the crowds that chat as you enter the station. Turn your mind from the dancing smell of coffee, and the beautifully greasy food and the air heavy with warm spring rain. The cobbles are still there: they’re just for another day. So too are the carved doorways and the roped bags and the feeling of cash in your hand, but don’t listen for the buskers because they’ve gone. We don’t know where. Where has everyone gone?

Don’t think about the walk to work or running between puddles so that the bus doesn’t soak you. Turn your mind away from walking in the rain with music in your headphones and a takeout coffee in your hand, a pile of marking in your rucksack and a deli lunch. You’re wearing lipstick in that daydream. But no one will see your face now anyway.

And if you must think, don’t think about your kids. Don’t imagine the days in the park, the zipslides unslid, the ice creams unmelted, the adventures which seemed endless, now fallen into a chasm in their childhood. What awaits on the other side? The whole world might have changed and you, as their adult, better learn the new map bloody fast. They need your ropes; your toe holds. Find them, or make them, because no one in this family is falling.

Don’t think too much. Try not to notice what has gone. But come out at night. Stand in the silence and look at the sky. The satellites are still drifting and the rain still falls. Nothing has changed. Just the whole world and everything in it.