You’ve come back to me over the years, come back often, that bright, blazing light of yours never quite dying in me. And always there are colours. Come back as you come back to me on this train: the newly vamped carriage all orange and purple and blue, the over elaborate patterns on the seats. Trippy! you’d say, with that wide toothy grin of yours. Gawky. Not pretty. Beautiful. Like no other face I’ve seen, before or since.
I’m travelling there today, going back to see my mother. My last visit – at least to see her alive. Hope I make it. And suddenly I want you with me. How mad is that? So long ago. But I long to have you beside me now. You. No one else.
I should come with you, my wife said, Support you. No need, I told her, I’d like to do this alone.
It was my wife who brought you back to me this last time: a couple of days ago, just before I heard about Mum going down hill. Several years had passed without you entering my head until then, until Suzanne sashays in wearing this new dress of hers, twirling around, the pink, purple and orange silk swirling in a kaleidoscope of colours, me thinking, Too bright, sweetheart, while seeing you standing there in that tie-died T-shirt. And I missed you. I suddenly missed you so much I wanted to howl, Come back to me! Come back! Lovely, I told my wife, Looks lovely.