Alive Again

“Hey, Mum!”

“You don’t need to shout, Elsa. What is it?”

Elsa leant round the door. “What’s this box of papers on top of the dresser?”

“What box- Oh, those. Oh, that’s nothing. Just some old work bits. That’ll all go in the attic in the new place.”

“You keep this up and there won’t be any space in there,” Elsa called as she wandered back to the other room.

There was a scraping, then a shuffle, before the muffled cursing and the sound of Elsa staggering, and almost falling. May had long ago given up trying to help her daughter, knowing how damn stubborn the teen was, but she stood ready to run at the first hint of serious trouble. With a thud that promised some piece of furniture had been scratched the box went down again, and May exhaled again. The sooner they were moved the better.

It was about five minutes later when Elsa called again.

“Hey, Mum!”

“Still no need to shout.”

“What’s this?” This time though there was no accompanying sound of footsteps so, with a sigh and a silent apology to her own mother, May put down the things she’d been packing and went next door.

“What’s what, sweet child of mine?”

“All these papers.” Unsurprisingly Elsa had gotten no further than getting the box down, and was now slouched in the armchair flicking through some of them.

Even from the doorway May recognised the paper and the neat handwriting on it. “I told you, just some old work of mine.”

“You wrote this?” Elsa asked as she waved the manuscript at her mother.

“Yes.”

“All of it? By hand?”

“We didn’t have fancy computers or phones back then. It was by hand, or if you were lucky, a type-writer. Which didn’t have a delete button.”

Elsa was only half-listening though. “This is good.”

“You don’t have to sound so surprised.”

“No, I mean, really good. You were a writer?”

“Long ago,” May admitted. Even after all this time she felt the little bubble of pride, though it no longer burnt like it used to. Now it was tinted with the faded glory of nostalgia, and perhaps the slightest longing for the life she used to have. “Have you never looked at our bookcase?”

“What? You’ve actually got a book. Published, and all?”

“Yes. Where’s it gone?”

It took far longer to dig it out than it should’ve, and May couldn’t remember the last time she’d even pulled it down. There hadn’t been time over the last few years- over the last few decades really. Children did that to you.

When she handed it to Elsa there was a look of genuine respect and pride that crossed her daughter’s face. It was a look she hadn’t had for her parents for a long time, not since she lost her rosy-eyed view of them about age twelve. Since then she’d been too cool to care about them, and May hated to admit how much it meant to see that admiration again.

“Wow! Mum, this is awesome!”

“Thank you. It was just something I did, back in the day.”

“You should start again.”

May laughed. “No way. I don’t have time for that any more.”

“Oh come on, Mum. This is really good. You can’t let talent like that go to waste.”

“I don’t need another of your feminist rants, Elsa. I don’t have time to write any more. Between all you kids, and Grandad as well. Not to mention all the housework-”

“Mum, for real? You’re going to throw away your skill- your legacy- cos of housework?”

“No,” May snapped. “Because I have other work to do. Actual work. Just because you think every woman needs to be some high-flying managing director or something-”

“That’s not what any of this is about.”

“-it doesn’t change the fact that work still needs doing. I mean, who would look after Grandad if I just sat at home writing all the time, hey? Besides, you lot are my legacy.”

Elsa threw her head back and stamped her feet in frustration. “Will you just listen to yourself? You’re legacy should be greater than just who you gave birth to. Don’t you want something for yourself? Something more than just cleaning up after everyone else?”

“Well if you kids would pull your weight a bit more, it would be appreciated.”

“Fine. Whatever. You’re a lost cause. But just remember.” Elsa grabbed the published book and waved it in her mother’s face. “This is your legacy. This is what people will remember you by.” Without looking she tossed it onto the top of the pile of papers. “And that’s not much to remember.” Then she stormed away, and stamped her feet all the way up to her room.

“Would it kill you to walk nicely?” May shouted after her. “Honestly, that child.”

Devoid of help she got back to packing the room up, but she couldn’t stop her eyes being drawn to the box of writing. After she taped one box up she wandered over and picked up a page, her eyes skimming over her immaculate handwriting.

The nostalgia glimmered again. Far off she could remember the thrill of getting her author’s copy of the book, the very one that Elsa had so carelessly discarded just then. Back then it had been May’s pride and joy. After her first son though there just wasn’t any time to write, and by the second child- glorious Elsa- May had lost the urge to. All she’d wanted to do then was sleep, or talk to an adult. Over the years the family had just grown, as friends got sucked in as well, and nieces and nephews came along, and all of them always needed something done. No matter how much she worked there were always more chores to be done.

Yes. Exactly. She didn’t have time to write.

Nodding to herself she put the papers back in the box. As if to prove her point, the next ornament she moved was caked in dust. Off she went to get a duster, and the box of writing was forgotten about, taped shut and added to the pile, ready to move along with all the other crumbs of her life.

A week later she was sat at her father’s house, nursing a cold cup of cocoa.

It had been a bad week for him, and by extension, all of them. His gamy leg, as he’d called it for all these years, was getting worse, and by Tuesday he’d been bed-bound. Of course it fell to May to go and help him; everyone else was busy with work, or younger kids, or their own health problems. At first the plan had been to just stay during the day, and then come back first thing in the morning to start all over again.

On Wednesday evening he wet the bed, so May packed a bag and went to go and stay in his spare room. Now she was available for him to call on all hours of the day and night, but she was dreading what the new house would look like when she got back. The plan was that if it all stayed in the boxes no-one could make that much mess. That was the plan, but May knew what her children were like. They could make mess sitting in a prison cell.

There was the sound of drunken revelry from outside her father’s house. Young people out for the Friday night. Full of joy and drink, with no responsibilities to tie them down. With a sigh May thought back to that time in her life. From there it wasn’t much further to thinking about the box of writing, and the argument with Elsa.

“-that’s not much to remember.”

No, it wasn’t. Sitting alone in the gloom she felt that all the more vividly now.

“Oh, bugger it.”

It took May five minutes to find a pen and a notepad.

It took her five more to dust off the nostalgia.

It took another five minutes before she felt alive again.