Inspired by Pep

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A trigger takes me back

to a precious moment I’ve kept dear

The mere thought of which elicits a tearful sadness

alongside a warm sense of comfort and safety

~

Revisiting a golden time and place from long ago

with a fresh wonder and joy for a world so new

That innocence and purity of my exposure to life has since been lost and replaced

by knowledge and language too descriptive, and needlessly complicated

~

I feel the pangs of mourning for a homesickness of my youth

accepting that it is impossible to appreciate the richness of existence again through such a cherished, simple perspective

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What is that very first moment when you know you’re alive?

Is it the vision of your mother, seen through your

fresh and never before used eyes?

Perhaps your existence begins when your mind comprehends the soothing sounds of kind voices heralding your arrival into the world?

What is your very first memory?

And how early into infancy can you travel when a single object or mood

triggers a special childhood sensation, locked away from long ago but still

influential and ever-present in your life – governing who you are to

this very day?

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It hits me only now that this image I’ve had of my mother, all this time

Has long been affectionately biased by the rosy tint of these youthful eyes

~

I am now at an age, corresponding closely to that time when she had me

Faced with a similar prospect of our lives changing ever irreversibly

~

I’ve known her only as my mum, an enriching role model for an only son

It makes me wonder how she was as a young woman and how we would have gotten on

~

Adulthood is thrust upon us so soon, often catching us unawares:

Not fully ready to undergo that morph into a generation of greying hair

~

The funny thing is that it was me who made her “mother” – a role she grew into perfectly

Almost as if we’ve educated each other in this life cycle of humanity

~

And through her constant love with all her wisdom gained and shared up until here

This next stage of existence an awakened latency, and one I needn’t fear

~

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I am a best man, an old friend, even a husband

For those who need that special someone

I never judge their motives nor their reasons

I am happy to put on that predefined face

~

For friendship isn’t just a case of reciprocity

Neither is it a process of bartering

It’s a sense of security that you feel when it’s there

A loss all too revealing of oneself when not

~

Family then is a different thing altogether

A knowledge of a comfortable home and a formal awkwardness

Where things that need to be said often never are

A festering buildup of internal disciplined frustrations

~

It’s often too uncomfortable, isn’t it?

To have society and friends and family on your back

That’s why I offer you my shell

To shield you from the strain

~

So call me Bob or Jack or William

I’ll be whoever it is you need

My going rate is fairly reasonable, I think

Allowing you to focus on only who you want to be

An accompaniment to the short story of Richmal Oates-Whitehead

What if it was just that one little thread

Which meant the difference between him going to her instead of me

What if it actually never happened

Existing only as another ‘what might have been’

~

What if I were to weave this thread in my tale

Diverting it into a vacant and adjacent stitch of fate

For me that’d be a far more refined resolution

Than the tears that run down when all is too late

~

Copyrighted image belongs to Sharon Smith (portfolio)