It Was a Time

It Was a Time

This week’s prompt from Beth Kempton asked what makes us feel settled in a place.

At first, I thought I knew the answer.

A village.

A farm.

A particular house.

But as I started writing, I realised I wasn’t remembering a place at all.

I was remembering a time.

⸻

It Was a Time

When I moved back to the farm

Dad was lost then.

The marriage gone.

Two children already.

Alice still inside me.

The house wasn’t much.

A front door

that didn’t know how to lock.

The sort of place

where everyone had walked in

for so long

there seemed little point.

I unpacked the children’s toys first.

The dog.

Whatever made it feel

less temporary.

The iron hissing steam

through school uniforms.

Heartbeat

on the television.

Dad in his chair

talking his nonsense.

The courtyard full of bikes.

Red plastic tables.

The noise of family.

Then the silence

after the noise of family.

Crossing the yard

knowing if something went wrong

someone would come.

A lamb.

A child.

A mouse.

It didn’t matter.

Someone would come.

I used to think

it was the village

I missed.

But now

I think it was a time.

When my children were still small.

When Dad was still alive.

When the house was always full.

When everybody

I loved

was somewhere

within shouting distance.

⸻

The prompt asked about place.

The poem answered with people.

Perhaps that is the difference.

Perhaps the places we long for are often just the containers that held the lives we loved.

The farm is gone.

The children are grown.

Dad is no longer in his chair.

But sometimes, if I listen carefully, I can still hear the iron hissing steam through a Monday morning, and Heartbeat talking from the television in the next room.

And for a moment, everyone is still within shouting distance.