The Quiet Joy of Being

Dear friend,

The way it felt to lie on my belly,
fingers probing and poking the synthetic loops of the living room carpet—
it stole up on me today.

I was waiting for the kettle to boil,
and looking—as Mam would—
out of the back kitchen window
at the green living things dancing
against the bruised blue-grey drama of a windswept afternoon sky.

How is it that the world can be so lost to me sometimes,
and at others, as near and sweet
as the scent of our poor old honeysuckle in June?

The quiet joy of being with her blossoms in my chest.

Or Mam’s favourite flowers—her irises—
with their purple and white patterned faces
and broad green waxy leaves,
bobbing their heads to the sheets on the clothesline.

In my imagination,
my boy self turns and climbs the concrete steps—
and there she is in the kitchen,
looking out of a window just like me.

And there are some ginger biscuits
cooling on the wire rack.

I never got stomach ache from eating them warm.

Remembering
the quiet joy of being.

I’ll never forget

the way they melted.

Till tomorrow
Love
Mikey

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