Lullaby

Relics of the day's cobbled clouds are still chalked upon the darkening sky. In the deepening indigo, I watch a golden moon rising through undressed windows, until its quiet light slowly appears in the uppermost  panes.

 Homecoming has sent those waves of exhaustion as limbs and minds relax, finally to break over me; my senses lulled by the song of crickets and purring of soft sleeping cats.

 The house enfolds me like a cashmere blanket, cradling me in its warmth and comfort. By the moon's glow, I trail my hand lightly upon the bannister  to reach the top room; and there, gaze out across rooftops and onwards to the lights of docks that never sleep; the familiar low hum of engines resonating clearly across the cool night breeze.... an industrial lullaby.

Tonight I shall sleep sound; with languid cats upon the bed to anchor feet; each vibrating breath pulling me from consciousness; until I too succumb to sleep's warm embrace.
When morning comes I shall awaken to pale sunlight filtered through slatted blinds, the soft call of doves on warmed rooftops and my rhythm of life restored.

It has been a long journey these last few months, and all of you who have cared to listen or read my words, you too have carried me home.

Homeward bound

Out of nowhere, a single call has ended the haunting wait of living, crumpled clothed, as temporary nomads. Minds fraught with the daily balancing of mundane tasks, made complex by circumstance, can at last find the still quiet calm that sustains the soul.
Tonight we can curl contented in our own beds; the heavy weight of supine cats soft breathing at our feet.
The last 5 months has been hard; especially so for small son. The constant to and fro has unsettled the most stoic of us; and daily routines established to get by, have left a lingering state of exhaustion.
Yet for all this, we have been embraced by the truest of friends, who have opened their homes to us, keeping us from crumbling.... Perhaps this is the way life's balance is restored.

Suspended animation

Slowly the silken skeins of spider webs spread from shuttered windows....and on to cling to the corners of picture frames. Delicate in the still air they festoon white walls with desiccated carcasses of long digested flies.

Since our hasty departure, the house has sunk into weary resignation; like Miss Havisham before a decaying wedding breakfast. Cats pad on soft paws, commandeering cushions, shedding fine fur across  bedspreads and carpet corners; to add to the thin layer of dust, stirred by feet to settle in whorls upon the carpet.
A listless ennui has crept up on us; the flurry of painting and cleaning a distant memory as another month ticks past, bringing no respite from this waiting game. Like Vladimir and Estragon we are paralysed; destined to forever wait for a redemption that never comes.

Picking up pieces

In the aftermath of fire we are transformed, chameleon - like; subtly changing to fit into the spaces and routines of others. We softly tread, anxious not to disturb, mindful that for all we are amongst true friends, we are still transient, with all the etiquette this entails.
Unable to relax, I yearn for my own sense of space, for things that soothe and calm; for routines all my own. Waking in other beds, other rooms from fitful sleep has left me world weary; I long for an end to this peculiar exile.

This weekend I dispatched son and husband to family, and with determined air, a camping stove and a bucket, reclaimed my home from the creeping sadness of neglect that threatened to overwhelm it.
As I tidied, scrubbed and cleaned, the heaviness I have become accustomed to silently slipped away, restoring the connection with my own space once more.

Last night I slept curled around soft breathing cats, in my own bed, for the first time in 81 days. A hiatus of calm in these turbulent times, unsustainable whilst there is no water, power or sewerage to make return possible; yet for all that exactly what was needed in order for me to regain what has slowly been leeched away.

.... Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.....

Washing billows in ordered rows , throwing scattered shadows across the slow breathing bodies of sleeping cats lying torpid in the warmth of the sun. The sweet scent of jasmine perfumes a delicate breeze to freshen languid limbs as we sit in companionable silence, noses buried in books.
Lazy Sunday morning; brunch on the patio, time slowed ........only this is but a facade of normality; we are merely visitors in our own home, playing at everyday family life.
The sting of fresh paint and symmetry of newly hung pictures belies the turmoil of packing and unpacking, as we gather what we need in folded piles and disappear off into the night to while away the moonlit hours in other people's houses, other beds.
With increasing frustration we mark the tally of time, 63 days; yet still the clock ticks on in endlessly  mounting minutes weighing heavy from the effort of this daily grind.
Taps stand dry, switches powerless, and pipe work depleted. Only the silence of broken promises remains.....no starting point, no end in sight.......

Spring Cleaning

The Spring sunshine has arrived, banishing shivering still air, warming rooms and breathing a little tenderness back into our cold abandoned home. Motes of dust dancing in the sunbeams have spurred me on to remove ancient cobwebs laiden with the long dead corpses of a spider's supper,in an attempt to restore order where chaos still reigns.

Now is the time for painting; balancing precariously on stepladders as the slow, sucking pull of a roller on plaster transforms tired walls; and the scent of fresh paint belies the lack of proper cleaning as we wait for services to be restored.

In the dark depths of the burnt out garage below our feet, wires bereft of power have been stripped from charred walls; tangling like cold spaghetti abandoned on the driveway. A car, hardly recognisable as the BMW it once was, has been dragged from the pit; leaving a trail of oil, ash and burnt rubber in its wake, before being unceremoniously lifted on the back of a lorry and hauled away to the scrap heap.
Ceiling boards, melted piping and all manner of now unrecognisable objects have been added to the overflowing skip.
Slowly but surely the clean up has begun....

.....and the world spins madly on

Since the fire, with the precision of a military campaign;life has become a series of  logistical challenges to be catagorised, organised and timetabled.
We move from flat,to work, to house, to flat; in the slow dance of necessity; collecting clothes, sorting laundry and searching for those things you never realise are vital, until of course you need them.
I have become the packing maven; shaking, folding and smoothing garments to swell the bags with weekday working wardrobes; co ordinating mix and match outfits that stay crease free, stress free, and take the effort out of 6am dressing.
Our garden is in Spring bloom, and our weekend washing billows upon the line; but with no water, power or sanitation, it is a mere veneer of the suburban living we once knew. To spend time at the house, cats on laps, quilts wrapped tight against the bitter cold; necessity forces preplanned 'comfort breaks' or the decision to slowly dehydrate.
The toads in their tank hum in the darkness, unperturbed by absence of warmth and light, whilst the cats soft footed, have claimed squatters rights on empty beds. There is an air of sudden abandonment which is sensed as soon as key turns in lock; bringing a sadness to a home that  has become a cold  harbour.

Home(less)

The scream of a vixen woke me,disoriented, from exhausted sleep; moonshine through slatted blinds casting a cool glow upon familiar quilt on unfamiliar bed. A door left ajar carrying the sound of my son's soft breathing from the darkened room beyond.
Ten days and three bedrooms on from the fire that began this nomadic existence, still we live out of suitcases; the kindness and generosity of friends circling round us like a protective shield.
'That which does not kill you makes you stronger;' but for all that, I miss the simple things; clothes uncreased by suitcase folds, my own bed with warm cat curled into my side...
.....yet still we wait; longing to go home once more.

Things that go bump in the night

Waking up in early hours from deep dreams, I thought I heard the heavy fall of footsteps on the scaffolding.  Mouth dry and heart thudding, I realised this was no night terror, but something far worse. A bitter smell of burning rubber, and thick oily smoke forced its way through the cracks and crevices of the walls, causing chests to tighten and breathing to become shallow. Blue lights flashing  through windows and  the deep throbbing pulse of mighty engines, dragged us from our beds; scrabbling for thick jumpers and slippers before descending to the front door.
Out in the cold night air, billows of smoke and muffled explosions were coming from the parking garage beneath our feet; beneath the very foundations of our homes. Neighbours, pale-faced with exhaustion gathered round,waiting for the fire crews to emerge from the smoking depths to explain what had happened; what we should do.
Gas pipes copper melting with blue flame, metal twisted , molten plastic ;all moulding into warped and ashen skeletons impossible to recognise as their former selves. The acrid smell of charring clung to buildings and nostrils. Fire out, the damage was devastating. All essential services rendered useless. Cold homes, empty taps, gas capped , no water......
So now we the nomads seek shelter; our lives bundled into a series of bags; relying upon the gentle kindness of family and friends, until the cold empty houses become homes once more.