Poetry in Motion

Christmas with the family, all mistletoe and wine and a string of Christmas cards going from one end of the mantlepiece to the other.

I watch the Christmas tree lights blink at me as if they are as confused as I am. Hell. Christmas hell in Bolton, Bromley Cross to be exact.

‘Come on Libby,’ my sister Jessica cajoles. ‘You can’t keep sitting there looking all forlorn. You resemble a little scruffy rag doll that nobody wants to play with. It’s like you have fallen out of a toy box and been trodden on.’

I glare at her. If that sounds weird to you all I’ll say is this, Jessica is doing a degree in creative writing and don’t we all know about it. Every time she opens her mouth we are treated to a simile or a metaphor. She can’t even eat a Carrs pastie without it turning into a poem.

My Mum and Dad love it, it’s like in their eyes they have Boltons answer to Emily Bronte because Jessica goes walking up Rivington and yes, Rivington has crags and purple heather. Well, in Jessica’s world it does. Personally, I think she is mental.

She’s never had her heartbroken because she’s “focused” or “very driven” as my mum likes to call it. “No time for lads our Jessica, she’s ambitious and creative.”

I don’t like to add that no lad would have her if she can’t enjoy a glass of wine without getting her notepad and pen out to write a quick poem about it.

I look at the lounges overblown anaglypta wallpaper and I realise that Jessica belongs here, and I don’t. I was meant to be going travelling with my boyfriend Oscar, but he decided that he is going to America with his brother Howard and Howards best friend Rebecca, who incidentally, doesn’t look like a rag doll tossed out of a toy box.

‘We’re sick of you snivelling into that bloody cardigan,’ my dad says suddenly as he chews on a piece of Terrys chocolate orange. ‘Get your bloody act together. You’re lucky our Jessica is taking time out of her heavy schedule to snap you out of this rubbish. She’s got deadlines and all sorts to deal with as well as an up-and-coming performance at the Octagon.’

‘That isn’t certain yet Gareth,’ my mum interjects as she pours herself another Harvey’s Bristol Cream.

‘Best of Bolton, that’s our Jessica, I’ll put my life on it.’

Jessica nods and goes to reach for her notepad and pen and then thinks better of it as I reach for another tissue.

‘Oh, all of that can wait,’ Jessica says, flapping her hand in a mock humble fashion. ‘Right now, my primary focus is our Libby. Now come on Libs, chop- chop. Don’t worry, you don’t have to do much just put a pair of wellies on, a bob hat, a coat and we’ll go for a walk up Rivington. You can wear my wax jacket if you like.’

My mother’s forehead suddenly creases with concern, ‘I don’t think she’s up to Rivington Jess, just take it easy. Why not take her to Jumbles? It’s nice and flat there, even your dad can manage Jumbles.’

My dad opens a bottle of the crafted bitter I bought him and chuckles, ‘We’ve had a few fumbles at Jumbles in our time haven’t we Sandra? Hey, you could put that line in one of your poems Jessica.’

                               ***************************

I’m finally released from the family prison, I mean home, and after enduring quite a perilous ride to Jumbles here we are, and a plan has formulated in my mind. I’m going to give Jessica a run for her money and let’s face it, I have nothing better to do and it might take my mind off the fact that I feel worse than a discarded and trodden on ragdoll.

As Jessica pays for the parking, I try to think of a sentence that could encapsulate how awful I feel. I think of one quite effortlessly and for the first time in weeks I smile. My mouth curves like a banana. No, forget that, too cliché but Jessica sees me smile and looks pleased. Pleased with herself.

‘See,’ she says smugly. ‘I told you a walk would do you good.’

I let her link my arm, let the walk and the fun begin.

We walk in silence for a bit as Jessica looks around, no doubt looking for some creative inspiration before she realises her ragdoll of a sister is still attached to her arm.

‘How are you feeling now Libs?’

I shrug, ‘I feel like my fists of anxiety are shoved into these Aran mittens. Encased. Imprisoned like my mind.’

Jessica stops and eyes me suspiciously, ‘You’re not wearing Aran mittens Libby.’

I smile, ‘Oh, no I’m not, ignore me. I’ll try and focus on the crunch of the snow that reminds me of icing on top of a wedding cake that I want to smash to pieces with my liquorice-coloured wellies.’

Jessica stays quiet but suddenly our walk has upped a pace. ‘I think what you should do Libby is stay present and take deep breaths,’ she says finally.

‘That’s what my therapist said as she tried to make sense of the chaotic tapestry that has started to weave itself in my head.’ I reply, adding a fake loud sigh for good measure.

Jessica harrumphs as the snow starts to fall and I know I’ve reeled her in. She sticks out her tongue to catch the snowflakes.

 ‘Catching snowflakes as they melt on your tongue, reminding you of childhood, a time you belonged,’ she retorts, quite viciously actually.

I look at Jessica out of the corner of my eye and her cheeks are now tinged with pink and I suddenly feel a rush of warmth inside. She is irritating don’t get me wrong but her last line about childhood and belonging suddenly dulls the ache I’ve been feeling since Oscar tossed me out of his toy box.

‘This is lovely,’ I finally say. ‘A beautiful moment with no outside chatters that crash and smash against your mind like constant iron clatters.’

Jessica suddenly bursts out laughing, ‘That was rubbish Libs.’

I grin at her, ‘I know but I’m not the poet. I liked your line about belonging though, it was great.’

Jessica squeezes my arm, ‘You’ll be okay Libs, and you can start again, you were too good for Oscar anyway.’

‘I’ll take you over him any day,’ I whisper.

Jessica groans, ‘Libby, don’t rhyme every word I say. Come on, let’s go and get a Costa hot chocolate and a blueberry muffin.’

We reach the car, and I stop. ‘Jessica, do I really look like a scruffy rag doll that nobody wants to play with?’