We get in the lift, mum, me and you.
There’s a man with his daughter, she’s barely an inch shorter than him now.
The man looks at you, and something unravels.
“I remember when I had a little one, just like that”
And he did. Hybrid hair, a few shades off black. Another child bridging two worlds. Swimming between the lanes.
He stares at you. And I stare at him. And all I see is sixteen years of love clawing away from behind his face.
And it’s got nowhere to go.
What is he supposed to do with all that?
What are we supposed to do with all this?
How many times did he mindlessly utter the phrase “they grow up so fast”
How many times have I?
If grief is just having no place to put all our love, then I already grieve for you.
The man knows things I don’t want to learn. I don’t want to be in the lift, talking at strangers. Failing to obscure the clawing behind.
The lift stops, they get out.
I half expect him to look back like a movie cliche. But he doesn’t, of course.
His girl has gone ahead, so he only looks that way.
