By Mick Cunliffe.
Her earthy-scented, early-morning voice,
panic a mildew creeping across each husky word,
it wafts smoky as damp wood tossed in campfire flames
through my sleepless mind at 3am.
Down at the campground with her family
she woke before sunrise. Her non-verbal,
autistic 9-year-old son had wandered out of his tent
when everyone else was asleep. He was gone.
He would have headed down to the lake’s edge.
He loved the lake, the lapping water, the ducks.
She knew. Her tone tried to convince me
she wasn’t crazy, she wasn’t just imagining the worst –
his limp body, damp and lifeless in the shallows –
it was only a matter of time.
Being in the world – breathing – loving – living –
it does these things to you. These maddening,
all-consuming things. You panic. You scream.
You howl then try to convince a complete stranger
that you’re not utterly mad. As if the belief of another
could breathe hope into sunken lungs.
Amid this chaos I found myself witness
to her moments, absorbed into my brain cells
only to creep out of a grey matter cocoon at 3am,
whispering earthy flame scent into my silent ears.
I lay worrying if I’d have time to vacuum tomorrow,
which day I’d mow the lawn,
if I’d remembered to buy frozen peas
for tomorrow night’s lamb casserole,
scents of rosemary and thyme creeping from the pot,
all soon ravenously consumed by her husky words.
If you are haunted by someone else’s horror at 3am
are those moments – by osmosis –
then your own? Is this what it means to be human?
To consume someone else’s grief as sunlight,
for it to nestle amongst your own, become your own,
a cicada chirping in the night
keeping me wide-eyed and wondering at 3am
which moments will be my last ones?
Will I kick off my shoes, stroll barefoot on the beach,
toes in the sand, saltwater on my skin –
allow lips to linger on mine a moment longer,
savouring the taste of one last kiss –
patting soil around a cutting, slip off gardening gloves,
dig fingers deep into damp earth one last time?
Then I wonder how long until I’m used to the feeling
of damp soil pressing all around my skin,
earthy taste coldly kissing my lips.
At 3am I am a witless fool, blindly believing
the sun will always rise for me in a few hours.
The last time her husky words intervene at 3am
will I know and smile? A human,
something of her – her words – her horror story –
was absorbed into the cells in my head
and became part of me. Will I take a moment
to marvel at human osmosis?
After living twenty minutes of her worst fears
she found her son. He was perfectly safe. Warm.
Curled up. Oblivious. Sound asleep in his best friend’s tent
at the far end of the campground.
They were nestled together in the one sleeping bag.
Perhaps that moment crawls out of a grey cocoon
in her mind at 3am. Perhaps she sighs,
rolls over and drifts into a deep, deep sleep.
