White

I've been doing prompts lately, and really enjoying it. If anyone reading this wants me to write something, send a prompt in and I will write it to the best of my ability. This was a prompt to describe a colour without using its name. It was an interesting experiment.

It's sharp, bright. It speaks of innocence and cleanliness, safety; a darker shade might seem contaminated, by the dirt or the pain or the tangy nature of a streetlight or an energy-saving bulb. No, this glimmers, refuses to be blocked out or changed. It shines, like the sun but brighter and untainted by chemicals or even distance. This is heavy, strong, it is defiant and sturdy, stiff with poignancy, as though to say 'I am incapable of sinking to your level', unable to dim or dirty even if it tried. It cannot be sullied. It is light, floaty, and cannot be touched by mortal hands. It is pure. It is the state of nature unchanged, the universe before the universe was born. But it remains predictable, like a sheet of paper, unearthly like a ghost. It is perfect and untainted. There is nothing like it. It is the purest, untainted white.

If I could hold you

I have been watching you for a while now. At first you were okay; you cried, but you called friends, your parents, sometimes even mine because they shared that loss. But slowly friends got sick of it, somehow expecting you to get over it, as though that were possible. Your parents had never understood, they thought I was just a flatmate, someone you lived with but didn't love - I won't go into their prejudice now, because really does it matter anymore? - and so they expected you to move on. "Maybe if you moved out, darling, you would feel better?" But all our memories are there, in that tiny flat where we began our lives and I understand; you just can't leave them yet.

But, sweetheart, one day you'll have to.

You sleep on my side of the bed now, head pushed into my pillow, but after three months there is no scent of me left, and really, darling, you should wash the sheets. And do the dishes. Clean that wine glass you've left on the bedside table like a macabre sculpture, my lipstick on the side, the closest thing to my lips you have left. The duvet cover really needs to go in the wash, we had others and you still do, even though I didn't pick them and they're not my favourite colour, purple.

Daylight would help. I know, I loved summer, and you loved it because I did. I know, now that spring is here you feel further away from me, from the ice that caused my car to skid, sliding, invisible hockey pitch on the road. But I want you to embrace it, the light; it really will make you feel better. Remember my smiles in the sun, not your years on my pillow.

If you could hear me, you would know I want you to be happy.

Sometimes I add my screams to yours, because your crying frustrates me. Before the accident, I would have curled you into my chest, your tears soaking my blouse, and my hands would have stroked your hair and calmed you. I long to feel the silken brown locks that adorn your head and frame your face, just as you long to be held by me again. Believe me, I miss you as much as you miss me.

My dearest love, my wife.

I wish you would get up, wake up, do something, anything. Clean the bathroom or dust in the lounge. Pack up my clothes instead of wearing them, because the only thing it's doing it causing us both pain, though you can't see mine. Get rid of that damned car. I know you think it a mockery, that it should have been so easily fixed up when my own body could not be, too broken to even bleed, to breathe. Now it stops you leaving the flat because it waits outside to mock you. Get rid of it.

How could we have known we didn't have longer? Would you have stopped me going out that day? I'm sorry, but you have to start living again, for the both of us.

I'm going to lose him soon

Three days from now I will lose him.

It is bizarre, the way this illness has hit me. I don't remember it of course; early onset Alzheimer's, I'm told, on a nearly daily basis. There is a man that visits and with him comes my son. I remember the visits but not the man.

Day 3
When the man comes, I smile. "Who are you?" I ask, and he looks at me with those blue eyes, so like my son's, and he says "I'm Tim, I'm your husband."

"Okay." I have no choice but to believe him. Behind him is my son, Timmy. "Hey Timmy." My three year old rushes towards me, arms outstretched, and I take him into my arms. I don't remember why Timmy doesn't live with me anymore. Perhaps this husband of mine is supposed to look after him.

Later, I remember, because as I gaze at Timmy I see, in my mind's eye, a time when I don't know him. Somehow I know I've felt like this before, though I have no recollection.

"Timothy," I say, to my husband who is not my husband, "can we go out, all of us? I'd like to go somewhere."

"Where?"

"A day out, like we always do." His confusion tells me I've said the wrong thing. "Picnic?"

"I don't have any food with me. Tomorrow, we'll go tomorrow." I know this is possible, because tomorrow I will still know Timmy. I nod and my almost-husband continues, "we could go for lunch? Or to the cinema? Timmy, what do you think?"

My son looks excited. He doesn't know what's coming.

So we go out. A lady comes in to help me change, but I don't know why. I can dress myself, put on my own shoes, but she insists on tying the laces while my son and the man watch. I wish they would avert their eyes.

Then we leave. I don't focus on the film we watch, only Timmy's hand in mine the whole time, except for when he reaches into the box to grab popcorn into his tiny hand, stuffing it into his tiny mouth, only to take my hand again and cover it with stickiness.

I don't focus on what I'm eating, only the mess Timmy makes at the cafe. To think I hated his mess, and now I love it because I know I'll lose it when I lose him.

Day 2
"You have some visitors," the nurse says.

In come the man who brings my son. I recognise his face, but I have no idea who he is. "My name is Timothy, I'm your husband," he tells me, as though exasperated. Timmy, my son, runs to me. "I brought a picnic," says Timothy.

The nurse helps me dress, and inside I fume, thinking 'I am not a damn child, I can dress myself.' But I don't say it, all I can think about is the day after tomorrow, when I know I'll look at Timmy and not know him. Just like this man who says he's my husband and looks enough like Timmy for me to believe him.

I lie on the plaid picnic mat and Timmy feeds me carrot sticks, too many all at once so that I almost choke. But I don't mind, it's just to great to see him happy, even when he gets bored and slams down on top of me, carrot on his face, and winds me. I focus on his body on mine and my arms around him.

I make them promise to come the next day.

Day 1
When Timmy comes, I wonder how he got here. Then I look at the man with him, and realise that's how. "Who are you? Why is my son with you?"

"I'm your husband."

"Why don't you all go sit in the TV room?" the nurse suggests, and I nod, shrugging on a dressing gown.

I am the youngest in the room, and i don't remember why I'm there. Timmy doesn't know either, because he stares at the old people before pulling me towards a sofa and sitting down with me. The news is on and he isn't interested, so he tries to get me to play, but I'm really tired today. Sometimes I look up and wonder whose child this is, until I remember.

It's nearly the day. It breaks my heart.

I spend most of the day in the TV room and watch him. He plays on the ground and I drink him in, the sight of him, my love for him and his for me, knowing tomorrow I'll look and think 'who are these people who have come to visit?'

Day 0
I wake up and wonder where I am. I know my name still, but not what room I'm in. When a nurse comes in, I think I must be in a hospital. The man and boy who follow her are strange to me, but I can immediately tell by the mousy hair and bright blue eyes they're father and son.

"I'm sorry, but who are you?"

The hurt mixed with annoyance is brimming over in the man's eyes, as though he knows a terrible secret that I don't. But he doesn't tell me what it is. He doesn't have time, before his son speaks, "Mummy, what are we going to do today?"

Fruit Bowl

 I remember the picking, I not yet ripe; the hard shelf beneath me and my sisters all huddled close, attached by the brown hardness of our heads, yellow-green bodies splayed out lazily. I remember how the hands would grab, pull, stroke, squeeze. Some hands were careful, some aggressive so that we would bruise, the wounds of previous lovers marring our tender skins so that others desired us less.

We longed for it, but dreaded it, that touch by human hands, to be caressed, chosen because we looked the most delicious of our fellows, the right age. Some like ‘em young, and some go for the older ones, the ones that are starting to show their age in the tanning, browning, wrinkling of their skin. Those humans we appreciate, on the off chance we’re not coveted younger.

But mostly, the waiting is what makes it hard. A week is almost a lifetime of waiting, it feels so long. I know it is not so for them, the humans, but I can’t help wanting them to hurry, to pick me up, even though I’m still green, to choose me!

I am separated from some of my sisters, their bodies ripped from ours, creating a savage tear at our tops. But it was worth it, because I am been chosen, and that firm grip as I’m held, used as leverage, fingers tight, are what I’ve wanted for so long and yet painfully teasing. I am put in a clear bag, demure, where I can watch and not be felt, except through a thin layer of chastity. Then I am handled roughly by another human before my human, mine, takes me home.

Then, more waiting.

I watch her move around the house, from where I lie with the other fruit. I know I shouldn’t be here, they don’t like me, their flesh aging all the more quickly purely because I am here. Their hate makes them ugly. I have seen her open her mouth, hold the fruit to her lips and kiss them, taste them, and I cannot help but desire it for myself. The grapefruit, my envy, she holds to her nose and enjoys his scent. I need to be held, stroked, caressed, tasted like the others, and yet she waits.

I am alone now. My sisters and the other hateful fruit went before me, and I am the last. I see her come towards me, and finally her hand closes around the curved shaft of my long, thick body. She stroked softly a bruised area, as though to heal me; I have waited so long, just for her to do that, to run her fingers over my ridges. Her other hand reached to my head, lips curving in anticipation, but as she wraps her hand around my head I lose sight of her.

The next thing I know is pain. She has snapped my top, the thick skin at my neck gaping, much of my tender flesh softened, some now mush. Oh, it hurts! She delicately peels back my skin, starting at the head, and I am naked in a way I never thought could happen; skin curling at my waist, wreathed in agony. And now, when she raises me to her lips, I realise there will be no kiss, and the tasting will not be seductive but torturous. Then I know nothing but the throes of torment when those pearly white teeth are driven softly, slowly into my pale, naked flesh.

Letters I'll Never Write

I'll never write this letter to you.

You still hold a piece of my heart, and there is nothing either of us can do about it.

You, with whom I fell in love in the rain when it felt like you saved me, and it was as though I couldn't help it, the rain a catalyst. My friends a barrier, something that could not be moved or avoided. Then finally, days later, they were no longer a barrier. It was a short while before you came to love me, for I have to believe that you did, or part of you, or that last part of my heart that cares for you will break like the rest did when I found out you loved her too.

And you, who I'm not sure ever did love me. I think perhaps, though I cannot be sure, that I have for the most part stopped loving you, and this possibility, that you never loved me, may be the cause of that. I am fine with this, for the most part. I think you only thought you loved me, because I cared for you and you knew it. We did enjoy one another's company, some times, and that is the important thing, though you would have preferred we were not together.

And, finally, you, who I still love with everything that I am, though we don't see each other enough for me to show you. You I could never stop loving, the other part of me, making me whole, you that grounds me and always has. The sun brought us together when she and he gave us up to us, never realising what they were missing and what they were creating. I am grateful for this.

Lastly, you, my future, our future. I hope there is a you, with hearts on fire and arms open wide. I'm sure there will be a you, because I love you already.

All Knowledge is Worth Having

I think this is a great thing to be my 50th post!

So, I got my first tattoo. I won't lie, it did hurt, and I did whimper a bit (though I didn't cry!), but ultimately it was worth it and I'm happy.

My friend took some pictures while the tattoo artist did it: