From the Doorstep

The clink of the silver teaspoon against her favourite ceramic, rust coloured mug rattles my brain for the third time today. The second spoonful of sugar before the third and final. I level the teaspoon with a firm gentleness, ensuring the correct amount. Stir it five times. One, two, three, four, five and clink. I pull the box of cherries from the fridge and count out the four she requested on her Victoria sponge. One, two, three and four. I sigh with relief that none of them look old or misshapen- hopefully I have it right this time. I place the floral plate and the mug onto the matching floral tray. I slide it slowly off the counter, into my hands and lift it up. I always shake slightly, causing the spoon I must leave in to vibrate against the mug.

She’s watching Strictly Come Dancing again tonight. Her third rewatch of this week's episode, she makes notes in her butterfly notebook about the footwork and the skanky dresses the women wear. “When I danced I covered my ass, these whores may as well be out there naked!” I place the tray on the coffee table in front of her, right in between the piles of scrap paper and the basket of unfinished knitting projects. As usual she doesn’t say thank you but grunts, nods and simultaneously urges me past the television screen. I sit uncomfortably on the edge of the armchair on the far side, I’d rather not sit on the couch next to her these days as I eagerly did as a child. I ask myself every time why I’m still serving her like this, what am I getting out of it?

As the evening rolls around I begrudgingly perk up enough to ask “spag bol for dinner okay?” I would usually just ask her what she wants but I know I already have what I need to make this and she’s already sent me out three times today for random, sudden ‘necessities’. She doesn’t tear her eyes away from the blue glow but she nods. Thank God for that. I couldn’t face Daniel in the Co-op again. “Oh, back again are we? Just obsessive aren’t you?” Even if I had time or energy to date it certainly wouldn’t be that asshole but my frequent visits seem to be sending the wrong message. I haul myself back to standing and wander back into the kitchen for the 5th time today. Fill up the old kettle that I have been filling since before I could reach the back ring on the stove. Pull down the spaghetti and the Dolmio. We can’t really afford all the brand name stuff we buy but she swears she can taste the difference and so, the overdraft definitely stays warm month to month.

To serve up the meal, I wipe down the tray of cake crumbs and spilled tea. I begin to stare out the kitchen window as I spot a little red squirrel scurrying up the tree next door. I love seeing the red ones. Living in Sheffield it’s one of the few places in England where they pop up now and then. I remember when I first learned they were dying out over the grey ones I was livid about it. It seemed so strange to me as a kid that it would be the uglier colour winning out. I think it probably makes more sense to me now. As it disappears in the branches I yearn to vanish with it. Then I get out the stupid floral plate.

The next morning I find myself weighed down in my bed, as if my duvet were filled with sand. I can just about haul it off but it strains me more than it should. As my feet reach the ground they recoil slightly from the hardwood floor and so I reach for the socks at the foot of the bed. I’ve had this pair for years now with the snowflakes on them. Mum bought them two Christmasses ago and split the multipack between me and my cousin. I remember I got 5 socks and she got 3 so we had to convene by the tree to ensure we each left with correct pairs. I don’t exactly understand why I still wear them in the dead of Summer. The few metres from my bed to the door are excruciating and I can hear the squeak of my slippers against the shiny wooden boards. I don’t have the willpower to really even lift them from the floor.

Breakfast, lunch and dinner. Then I go back to bed. That’s what it feels like these days. Somehow I reach the bottom of the stairs and I simply cannot turn my body toward the kitchen. An image of the dishes piled up and the fucking mug covered in her purple lip stain sends me in another direction. It’s been so long since I have ever left her to make her own tea…but I stride toward it. I don’t need my phone or my purse. I take the key from the door and in my striped pyjamas and Next slippers I March into the daylight. I go left- away from the Co-op. I can’t even remember what comes after this street in that direction. I for the first time in years, begin to walk without strain. There could even be a skip to my step.

The farther I move from the doorstep the freedom gets closer to me.

I must have walked for 20 minutes until I saw them but they were there clear as day. To my delight there was a park in front of me and here in this tiny park on this random Tuesday morning I can spot 4 fucking red squirrels. I hadn’t ever seen more than 1 at a time. I don’t even need to see anything else. I perch myself on the blue bench facing the park and I lean back fully. Exhaling as my back makes contact with the bars behind me. Two of them are sitting in the tree staring up into the leaves as if they are determining whether to go higher. The other two are bounding about the empty play area as it’s so early there hasn’t been a soul in sight other than me. My eyes watch them for a while until they drift over to the tyre swing. A smile creeps across my face and the muscles almost ache with rust from how long it has been. I have been here before. Without hesitation, without pause I hop up and I clamber onto the swing. Laughing quietly at how it creaks from the pressure holding me up. I swing. I breathe. I close my eyes and suddenly I hear whimpering…I feel thudding. I am crying. I’m crying on a tyre swing in a children’s play area on a fucking Tuesday morning. I’m done.

When I get home I storm in pumping with adrenaline. Marching into the living room ready to confront my demon. My one overbearing, over controlling, impossible to escape demon. Then I see it. The perfectly folded blanket. The pristine coffee table. The mug has no lipstick stains. The tray of untouched food. “Mum?!” I call out, frantically sprinting from room to room. Her bed doesn’t have sheets on it. Her bin is completely empty. No. I rifle through the drawer in the hall cabinet searching for her phone and scatter the contents about the ground. I look down and spot it. I sink against the wall in the landing as tears stream down my face. Pulling my knees into myself and burying my head. On the floor the pamphlet; in loving memory, wife, mother and friend. Her face so smiley and bright in a way I never got to see her.

It hits me all at once.