Oh, it’s you.
Peggy closes the car boot.
Marla is standing at the gate in
a long red coat,
her handbag over one shoulder.
Toffee.
She
reaches out.
I’m going somewhere.
A small child whooshes by on a scooter.
A frantic mother scrambles to keep up.
Are you coming too?
I take her hand.
It is thin, dry, warm.
I’ve signed up for dance classes, I say.
It is the truth:
at the Methodist Church on a Saturday morning,
swing and salsa –
All Ages Welcome.
Right, let’s hit the road, Peggy sings.
I think I’m going somewhere, Marla repeats.
I borrowed a book from you.
I haven’t finished it, I say.
It’s called Moon Tiger.
I couldn’t turn the last page when I tried.
Can I keep it?
She turns to face me.
Her eyes are pleading,
and then
her arms are around my neck
and the rough wool from her coat
is against my cheek.
I miss you, she says.
I miss you and you’re right here.
I hold on for as long as I can.
And when I let go
and look at her
I know
it’s unlikely we will meet again,
and if we do
she won’t recognise me.
But still.
In some secluded corner of our minds
we will both always remember.
And hopefully we can forget too.