Wednesday's Child

She doesn't want narrative today. Slices of pure lyricism shortcut from brain to skin without waiting for the words to form, a free association of mind and body that will leave scars she won't want to explain.

You're supposed to have grown out of this girl, remember? You're supposed to be bigger than both of us now.

Feelings drift like blind men's fingers, seeking out every crack and wrinkle in the day, raw skin scraping on concrete and sand, bones aching with years-worth of cold. Sleeping on rocks and under bridges, it became second nature to make herself scarce whenever she was not welcome. She became adept at moving on.

But today is not one of those second nature days. Today she shuffles, stumbles on her own belatedness, the things she passed up, the things that pass her by. Knows that she still doesn't know anything. Wonders if wisdom is worth the price.

Just keep walking. Tears can form and spill and dry. No one will notice. Just keep your head down.

Or wipe it all clean. Lie down on the tracks. Fall asleep in the snow. Let your foot slip at the top of the ravine. Lean a little further over, spread out your arms, just let it all go.

What did I say to you last time, girl? Your life shouldn't hang on the colour of the sky.

And she knows that these little things shouldn't be so urgent, but sometimes a smile - or no smile, or silence - is all the difference it takes for the sun to come out in her head. And she knows that it was never going to be easy, but sometimes she just wants to let it all slide...

And I know I'll have to go find her again, sitting out on another parkbench in the cold, singing to herself as the light fades away and the bottle goes from half full to almost empty, and the blood dries, and the people skirt round her thinking she's crazy.

It will be me that holds her. Me that holds her in, holds up the mirror, makes her smile to see herself after all these years still running away from home. And me that takes her back to yet another bed instead of that parkbench, makes sure she brushes her teeth and changes out of her clothes, sets her alarm for another morning. Me that tucks her in at night, with the extra blanket she wouldn't fetch for herself, and sings her back to sleep at 1 a.m. after the ghost-trains wake her up with their howling.

And me at last who makes a tale of it all, when she doesn't want words and the songs dry up inside her, when she feels so hollow she could just blow away.

I am the guardian of my solitude. Tomorrow we’ll have a long way to go.

The rest is silence. For today.