I've lost my slippers

The photo in my right hand turns every lump in the armchair’s seat to stones, pressing relentlessly. It reminds me how long I’ve sat here wondering about it, and in truth, pretty much everything else. If only I could think harder, drag memories out of the sticky date pudding in my head. My left hand reaches up and finds straggles of hair. No truths to be found there.

The Warden comes in and stares at me. He may not be a warden, but when you’re imprisoned in your body everything outside it taunts your incarceration. Nothing is mine any longer, except perhaps for the incomprehensible photo I hold. Why did they leave me that one thing?  

The ends of my legs are cold. I wish I could find the word for those missing things. Maybe the Watcher would fix it. My eyes focus on his blurry figure. He doesn’t move. So I lean towards the ground trying to reach them. A grunt escapes and I’m angered at once by the lack of speech. I kick, but the ground is out of reach of legs propped up and wrapped in place, movement bound. Even the kick was only in my imagination. But I glare at those things on the floor. They should be on the ends of my legs, holding my toes in place within the socks, keeping off the cold air. I have another go at reaching for the words.

I was trying to do something. I don’t recall what it was.

If I start back at the beginning, look at the photo still clutched in my right hand, I may remember I have lost my slippers with their fleece lining, bought for me by my daughter who grins up at me from another time, long ago.

A time of words and movement.

 ***

The deckchair wobbles on the hot golden sand beneath it. It’s my own fault for laughing too much. I keep my feet firmly planted in their flip-flops so I don’t land in a heap while I take yet another shot of the children building their sand castles. We’ve made it competition day for them and oh boy, do they do competing with gusto! There’s a tussle at the tide’s edge for control of the only bucket. Another takes the opportunity to run off with the little green plastic spade.

Only Ivy, in her blue dolphin print onesie, sits quietly just up from the lapping surf.  She studies sand running through her fingers, tiny glimmers of light catching the cascade as it falls. Her intensity is captivating. She must have sensed my eyes on her because at the exact moment before I click the shutter she looks up, grinning at me. It’s even more beautiful than the moment before, as if time is going to stand still right then, breath held and eternity captured. A mayfly caught on the wing. 

The moment passes of course – magic cannot last – but this time I have it trapped for ever.

I return to the mayhem of rolling, sand-covered bodies nearby, to hoots of laughter and growing cries of anger.

‘Who wants icecream?’ I call. They still fall for that one, forgetting their wars in the rush to be first in line as we trudge up the beach to the Mr Whippy van parked on the verge.

I return to my deckchair, licking the drips as my cone melts faster than I can eat. The children pile onto blue and white striped beach towels, streams of chocolaty cream running down faces and over hands. I ignore the mess. It’s half the fun, being messy and wild, and young.

When we’re done eating I delve into the giant tote beside me and pull out a hidden stash of buckets and spades. Now castle building can begin in earnest. Off they run. The sea will deliver their clean-up as they work and amazing creations unfold into moulded layers of walls and forts and turrets. In the end they’re doing a combined effort. It will make judging much easier. Even Ivy has joined in the teamwork. I have small prizes for all. A bag of marbles in rainbow colours ready to become a different holiday challenge.

At the end of the day we tramp back up to the beach-house where a meal of battered fish, chips and mushy peas awaits, and small exhausted bodies climb early into their bunks. And I to mine.

‘It was a great day,’ I mumble to the welcoming body beside me. ‘How was your time out?’

‘Perfect.’ I think I hear the reply before sleep catches me out.

***

My feet tap to the background sound of a samba tune popular in my youth. Once I’d have been up dancing, but I’m less inclined these days. Besides, I’m happy with my book, enjoying sunshine from the lounger on the deck.

Ivy brings me a cup of tea. She’s grown tall, but to me she’ll always be the little winged girl from the photo at the beach.

‘Really Dad, you have to get new slippers. Your toes are hanging out of those. All very fine now but wait until its winter and it won’t be,’ Ivy instructs.

She has also grown bossy. I call it enforced caring. I know what will turn up under the Christmas tree wrapped in snowflake paper with a ribbon. I’m betting its gold this year. We got silver last year, and red the one before that. I don’t recall when green was the theme colour. Might be green.

And Christmas comes, and we’re all together again for the holiday, lounging around on sofas and cushions while Ivy hands out the presents from under the tree. She has her solemn face on as everyone else, still a bit tipsy, imbibes a hair of the dog. Bless her, she’s been up since early making sure the turkey and ham are cooked just right, while her siblings rolled late out of sleeping bags left strewn over the floor. They groaned and rattled around in the bathroom cabinet hunting for paracetamol, the result of finding my stash of red wine in the back of the larder last night. They’ve recovered enough now to be laughing and elbowing each other. Some things never change, only the size of the elbows.

Sure enough, I get new slippers. I have to admit they are a great improvement on the old ones. I sink my feet snugly into their fleece lining feeling instantly cosier.

The ribbon is blue though. I didn’t see that coming. It reminds me of the sea as I roll the waves around my fingers and drift off into memories of our younger days.

There’s no longer a welcome body for me to come home to at the end of the day and I wonder when this wrinkled person emerged from the lean body previously housing it. A wētā now rather than a dragonfly. I recover back into the moment. Daydreams and nightmares can wait.

Their present from me is a photo-book. I’ve had it made up using my favourite holiday snaps from their childhood, successive years at the beach amidst sand castles and surfboards.

‘Ooh…’ they chorus. ‘We wondered what you did with all those photos you took.’

‘My treasure trove,’ I joke. ‘How else am I going to remember who you are?’

‘Ha ha! Very funny.’ The room is silent for a few minutes. Carefully they focus on their own recollections, avoiding the truth, until the volume builds. They argue over who was the best sand castle builder. I point out their icecream covered faces. At that, we all laugh and head off to indulge in the Christmas tradition of over-eating. With one on each side, I don’t need my stick.

***

Closing my eyes I shrug off this armchair’s containment. It’s not the Carer’s fault he cannot see inside my broken housing; talks loudly, and as if I was a child. I must be kinder. He will notice eventually and put my precious slippers back on. Retrieve the photo and tuck it into my shirt pocket, over my heart.

A treasured moment of clarity visited me. With my mind’s eye, I saw us all together again. It just took me a while. I remembered the love even though the words no longer came. It’s tendrils linger.

Some memories are cruel. I feel a tear fall. On the outside it seems I can still cry.

Ivy beat me to it. While I linger here, trapped inside myself, she has gained the wings of angels. They brought me her photo to help explain why she no longer visits.

Soon I will have forgotten once again. Until, studying the photo, I remember.

Some mysteries are better unsolved.