Page 11 of The Second Chance Bus Stop

London

Sons are like weeds. I say this in the nicest of ways, and if you’d seen my front garden you’d not question the affection

in my statement. I quite like eccentricity. I certainly like sons. Mine tends to pop up where he’s least expected lately,

and always in an attempt to secure my attention. MUM. Did you leave the tap on in the bathroom? The water bill was huge last month. My son, Blade, does not ask questions like most people. Instead they are followed by a long string of words and reprimands.

The fastest way to deal with him is to simply sigh.

When I hear the front door inform me that Blade is gone, I swivel out of bed and swallow the tablets he’s left for me on the

side table, a chemical sharpness brushing my throat. I don’t remember which day it is, but then I don’t remember a lot of

things anymore. I try not to dwell on that. I simply move on to the next thought. Some days my mind is one fast string of

images and thoughts in an endless scroll of one to the next, and other days, when I remember more, I can dwell on specifics,

can pause and sit with them. There is less anxiety when your thoughts move slowly, when you’re able to stop and hold them

for longer.

I walk downstairs the same way I think I always do.

The floor is cold against the soles of my feet, and I realise I have forgotten my slippers.

I stop at the hallway mirror and, as always, feel reassured when my own familiar face looks back at me.

I still recognise myself. Marvelous. The kitchen is full of sticky notes that say Do not touch .

Everything bears a warning. Cutlery drawer—sharp objects!

Kettle—hot! careful! I finally find something I am allowed to touch: my Thermos flask and a plate containing a sandwich, a handful of grapes and

two biscuits. I take it to the table and end up staring at it for an eternity because I am not quite sure what I am supposed

to eat first. The phrase five a day pops up when I look at the grapes, so I conclude that I’ll eat five of them, but the order of events is still unclear. In

the end I decide to tackle the sandwich first because I think of Goldilocks and how she first tried the big bowl of porridge,

and the sandwich is the largest item on the plate. I eat slowly, trying to halt the imagery and thoughts rushing past in my

mind, finding one I can settle on, that I recognise. The house is quiet, and I try to think if I get many visitors these days.

I wonder when Blade will be back. I am so used to my son’s presence that I’m not sure he counts as company at this point.

Rather, he is part of my environment, like the rug that’s been there twenty odd years and that I like to brush my feet against when I sit on the sofa.

Or the jewellery I don’t take off even for showers.

I search my mind for a memory that will tell me when Blade will come home and where he might have gone.

As usual the memory I need doesn’t come, but others do, flooding into my consciousness.

I am overcome with joy as image after image of Blade’s smiling face floats through my mind like a computer screensaver.

The time I taught him to ride a bike, late, at eight years old, far away from the neighbourhood so no friends would risk spotting him.

The pride when he finally learnt and the relief at not having to come up with excuses as to why he couldn’t join friends in the park.

I’m there, watching him smile and laugh.

Then suddenly my mind focuses on something else, more recent, getting close to answering my question about where Blade might be this very moment.

Except it’s not, and I’m left no wiser. It’s the image of the box of letters we went through.

Sweden.

Then it appears to me. I remember that I have something to tell Blade, something he must know, about lost chances and regret.

The trouble is it keeps slipping away.

There’s a point in life when your future is behind you.

It sneaks up on you. You think, Shall I go to Greece or Italy this summer?

And then the question changes and bears more weight because it reads in your mind like Should I go to Greece or Italy this summer —whilst I can ?

What I mean to say is that your life is in no way over, but you realise that each decision is now judged against whether

you can live with yourself if it never happens.

One day I looked at Blade and that damned thought popped up.

I should tell him about Sven whilst I can.